


Wrong

by MilwaukeeMeg



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-19
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilwaukeeMeg/pseuds/MilwaukeeMeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is Jim Moriarty's most trusted man, while Sebastian Moran solves cases with Sherlock Holmes. But as the consulting detective and consulting criminal clash... They all realise something is not quite right. Written for a prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt: _In this AU soul mates always find one another fairly easily, usually very early in life. John and Sherlock's souls have always found each other lifetime after lifetime, and so have Moriarty and Moran's._
> 
>  _But an aberration occurs in the present incarnations and John Watson winds up as Jim's right hand man, and Sebastian Moran winds up as Sherlock's flatmate and friend. None of them realize anything is wrong until the night they all finally meet at the pool and then it all starts to unravel. John's got a sniper rifle trained on Sherlock, Moran's readying himself to grab Moriarty and tell Sherlock to run, but suddenly both John and Seb get the overwhelming sensation that they've devoted themselves to the wrong person._
> 
>  _Gen if you want or eventual Sherlock/John, Jim/Seb._
> 
> Warnings: It will be dark. Foul language, sexual situations, violence. And sooo much of bad writing. Sorry, but I keep on inflicting my ideas to the world in such ridiulous manner.
> 
> Enjoy? Please? And please comment, whether you liked it or not!
> 
> * * *

**WRONG**

 **PART 1**

Mike Stamford turned out to be as nice, calm, collected, normal and, as goddamned boring, as John remembered him from their early years. And there he thought that a few more years of walking this crazy world would teach Stamfy that irony is not, in fact, a French dish, and sarcasm is not a Spanish city; if anything, it appeared that the man became even more convinced about those facts. But John forced himself to uphold the small talk – he was a civilian now, an army surgeon with shaking hands and panic attacks, one of those little, antlike, boring and plain men, even if unwillingly. Small talks were good. Throwing coffee in your acquaintance face was not. Small steps.

"Maybe you should find yourself a flatmate? Or better job?" said Stamford, and John had to clench his fist to prevent himself from screaming 'I killed seven people with my bare hands, I don't want to want a flatmate, I don't want to have a bloody better job, I want to look them in the eye and...'.

"C'mon. Who would want me for a flatmate... And who would want me as an employee." he snorted instead; to his surprise, so did Mike.

"You know, that's second time I've heard both today. One guy from our lab searches for a flatmate, and second for a bodyguard for his sister's company - the story is, frankly, quite crazy. But let me tell you about Sherlock Holmes, the flatmate..."

"No, Mike, tell me about that bodyguard position, sounds... fun."

And in two hours John Watson met Jim Moriarty, who, as it turned out, was not looking for a bodyguard, but rather a doctor to patch up some of bodyguards in his sister's agency. Messy work, many injuries, many violent actions, much too much for a PSTD ex – army doctor.

"And it might get a bit dangerous" admitted Jim, swaying in his office chair, smiling from over the computer he currently occupied. "Her men specialise in a bit... messy cases, you understand, and there might be some glitches, so their doctor might be on the wrong side of someone's fist and I really wouldn't want you to..."

"This position is perfect" cut in John, then suddenly realising what it might be all about, elaborated. "Well, my hand might not be up to brain surgeries, but I can do basic stuff better that your average GP, and I have a lot of experience with soldiers..."

"Your hands. Show me your hands! " Jim threw himself from the chair to grab John's hands in grip so strang that the circulation almost stopped. For the first time young programmer looked remotely interested, what pleased John although he didn't quite follow what could it be that rigged such a response. Jim smiled warmly after short examination, however did remove his hands.

"You play with the guns, Doctor, and you play frequently. Naughty, naughty... Tell me, are you any good?"

"Very good"

Three days later John was up to his elbows in man's ripped open abdomen, trying to save as much as he could with equipment found in the small, dark and musky flat in the middle of nowhere.

Three weeks later, in Argentina, he was digging out bullets from hitman's shoulder, as the projectiles swished mere centimetres above their heads.

Three months later he stood by the window in horrifyingly expensive and tasteless apartment in Dubai, taking aim on some of Jim's enemies who attended the party in the apartment across the street.

Four months later, John woke up in a hospital to the sight of Jim biting his nails so hard it drew blood ("Never, Johnny, never get yourself shot again, you understand? You're my right fucking hand and I don't like having it operated for four hours, thirty two minutes and nineteen seconds!").

Half a year later John and Jim sat in one of the safehouses watching Bond marathon ("Doctor's orders, Jimmy"), eating messily real Chinese takeaway when their lips met, for a seconds, minutes or days, they couldn't really tell and they didn't care at all.

It was great. It was everything John ever wanted. It was _more_ than he could ever dream of wanting. It was perfect.

It really was.

* * *

"Afganistan or Iraq?" asked strange, tall man, who walked into interrogation room as if he owned not only the place, but several countries and a few kingdoms as well. If Sebastian Moran was a normal, ordinary citizen, he would probably piss his pants or faint in anticipation of most elaborative torture methods. But even if you could say many things about Colonel Moran, the world 'ordinary' would be the last one you would think of – well, maybe just before 'sweet', 'cute' and 'meretricious' (who the hell WOULD ever think of the word meretricious, anyway).

"Both. And I have ripped out the hearts of enemies with my bare teeth, with hands tied on my back, and with both legs cut off" he said, just to unnerve this pretty young sergeant, Sally or something, who was so beautifully pissed off all the time. Tall man raised his left eyebrow contemplatively.

"Both legs cut off?" he asked, and Sebastian could swear there was a smile in his voice even if he face remained passive.

"I didn't tell you those were my legs" he smiled cheekily. "Or, for that matter, hands."

Instead of the answer, all he got was a most unsettling stare he ever encountered. It wasn't aggressive; it was neither a challenge, nor disapproval. But it cut you in pieces, dissected your demeanour, drilled into your skull and examined every spot, scar and defect you had, made you _think_ of what he sees, remember that you didn't really brush your teeth this morning and that you forgot to call your mother the day she died... It was disgusting and horrible and Sebastian wanted this man to take him apart just to see what the hell he could find, wanted to show the depths, the dark spots, blood and dead bodies lurking, just to... Check. Himself, this man, just to prove he was not normal, not ordinary, that Spook will not just turn around and forget one of dozens others who came and went.

He was so wind up, he didn't notice when pretty sergeant changed into tired inspector in old, worn out suit.

"So, no questions, Sherlock?" asked policeman, Lestode, Lestrade, something with an L, and Sebastian suddenly realised he was holding his breath like some goddamned schoolgirl on first date. Spook, or rather, Sherlock, just rolled his eyes and Sebastian felt sudden pang of remorse.

"Any idiot would see that he didn't do it, Lestrade, what is a testament of the skill of entire police force combined. Look at his fingers! Just look at his HANDS!"

"I am looking"

"Do you see it?"

"What?" this time Sebastian decided to remind everyone that he might be a bit more conscious than a lamp or a table and someone could try talking about him as he was there, for a change. Sherlock let out a long sight, full of pain and general suffering.

"The girl was strangled with a rope. The killer did not use gloves. The rope was rough. Do I need to go on?"

"I've got clean, not scratched hands" understood Sebastian finally. "So you know I'm innocent. Nice one, this guessing thing, although I came to that conclusion a bit earlier than you."

"Deduction" said Spook standing up, and adjusting his scarf. Sebastian let out an eloquent 'huh?'. "This, as you put it, 'guessing thing' is called deduction. And, using it, I can tell you're looking for a flatmate. The one, preferably, who could put up with your fascination with weaponry... ("Purely scientific" explained quickly Moran to Lestrade.) How do you feel about the violin?"

Two days later Sherlock Holmes and Sebastian Moran solved their first crime together and giggled on the crime scene for the first time. Two months later, they became inseparable, and Sebastan's collection of knives and guns rose steadily, while Sherlock had a great time playing with the poisons Sebastian was getting him with some help from his old, army friends. Half a year later they heard the name Moriarty for the first time and started The Hunt.

If Sebastian was any happier, he would explode.

* * *

He almost did, in the end. Or in the beginning, it's hard to tell for sure. Things got complicated and time was one of the last problems he had, with Sherlock Bloody Holmes almost getting himself killed, John Fuckin' Watson shooting from all the buildings and (probably) a few kennels and dustbins, Sally Donovan dumping him (either predictably painful, or painfully predictable, that one) and last but certainly not least James Holy Gay Knickers Of Doom Moriarty who was (in alphabetical order) crazy creepy, cruel, eerie, fascinating, frightening, handsome, insane, mad, maddening, psychopathic, sick, sinister, terrifying and well dressed.

Moriarty lurked in the shadows of Sherlock's cases, his name hanging in the musky air of the worst gambling dens and resounding in subtle clicks of vine – glasses in the most posh clubs. For all Sebastian knew, he and Sherlock were pursuing the ghost, some wicked and twisted spirit of pure crime and suffering. But they tried (to be honest, Sherlock tried while Sebastian tried to look useful and badass) their best to find this yellow brick road to the famous wizard of Crime, even though London they saw was still Kansas – the more Sherlock looked, the more there was no sign of anybody under the name of 'Moriarty'.

However Sebastian knew that when the moment came, he would recognise the man from the mile and on his scent alone. It was not something he would confess to Sherlock, of course: strange feelings, premonitions and old wives' tales were listed in "Are you kidding me" section, the one Moriarty learned quick not to explore. But he just had this hunch, twist in his gut, that he just _knew_ the man - his tongue turning exactly right while saying his name.

Both Sherlock and Sebastian looked into the void of organised crime, fuelled with fascination and (let's be honest) a bit of very unwanted admiration, so it was just a matter of time when the void looked back. With a bang.

"Hello, Lestrade, still having trouble with the easiest things? It's a wonder you manage to tie your shoelaces... Ah, so there is an explanation for the state of Sally's knees." smirked Sherlock Holmes walking into DI's office, with his faithful sidekick in tow. Lestrade hated Sebastian Moran with all his might, and suspected that his troubles with 'brainwork' were mostly due to the devoting 90% of his brain capability to hiding the disgust he felt in man's presence. Sherlock Holmes was never a good man - great, yes, brilliant - always, genius – no doubt, but he was never the one to escort old ladies across the street without a legitimate reason in form of a gory murder; and with this colonel of his he tried to... the best term was, Lestrade supposed, show off, deducing the most private secrets, sharpening the razor of his witticism and dark humour.

Sebastian Moran was witty, calm and collected man; he was rather liked by Lestrade's team (with notable exception of Anderson and Lestrade himself) for bringing stability and humour on the crime scenes, not allowing anyone to really feel how bad was the situation.

( "He was an accountant? Well, I guess it was rather taxing day for him" he would say innocently when Sherlock bend down to examine the corpse, and it was damn hard not to giggle while collecting samples of blood from the walls of this home – made butchery.)

But he was... _wrong_. Unsettling.

"I called you here, Sherlock, because we received a package today" started Lestrade, trying not to look at Moran, who flirted openly with Sally. Before consulting detective could roll his eyes, DI continued. "It was addressed to you, and we had enough sense to X – ray it to see if it was a bomb. Guess what."

"Oh no, it was a bomb." mocked Sherlock, looking around expectantly, as if offending package would appear suddenly out of thin air. "Where is it?"

"You really think I'd keep a bomb in my office? I gave it to the bomb squad, but I took the letter attached." Lestrade raised heavy, expensive envelope with Sherlock's name written in big, neat letters. Holmes snatched it, and Moran shuffled closer to take a look.

"Written by a man, slight hand tremor, sure of himself, strong hands, paper is expensive... Bohemian, yes." muttered Sherlock, while carefully opening the envelope (with help of Sebastain's knife, which appeared suddenly in his hand) and taking out a letter and a photo.

A chair standing in the middle of small, dark room. Moran looked at the photo in concentration that could, probably, move mountains but with something as ethereal as a picture it didn't stand a chance.

"A room? A bloody room? What is that, invisible date?"

" _Dear Sherlock Holmes,"_ read consulting detective aloud " _My name is Moriary and I am very happy to be your new pen pal! I think we have much in common and you trying to stalk me is such a great bonding time, don't you think?_

 _Now I should tell you something about myself, right? Well, where would be fun in THAT? But, as much as you, I like playing games, so instead of commenting on each other's musical tastes (I prefer Led Zeppelin to Bach, incidentally) we might indulge ourselves in one mystery and misery game. The clue is on the photo, Sherlock Holmes, and you must solve the case (that's the mystery part – I am aware that you read it aloud to some idiots, so I thought that spelling it out would be polite) as fast as you can – every two hours someone will accidentally drop dead. Oops. That's, if your harem didn't get it, the misery part._

 _Looking forward to hearing from you,_

 _M_

 _PS – You might also decline and stop being my bestest pen pal, of course. All it would take is for you to stop pursuing me in such a sweet manner. I HAVE a boyfriend, you know. Say you won't fight me, burn your files and we'll be gold. But we both know good game, don't we?_

 _love &hugs, but not too much (boyfriend, remember?), _

_XXX"_

"Wow" silence that followed was broken, of course, by Moran, who tried his best to hide a smirk forming on his face ('tried' is the keyword there, unlike Sherlock the man could not act if his life depended on it). "The guy has guts, I must say."

Sherlock stood in silence, eyes fixed on a piece of paper as it held answers for all the problems of modern world; to Lestrade's astonishment, he, too, wore a slight smirk, reserved usually for confrontations with the most _interesting_ murderers he caught – it was joy, excitement and pride. DI shook his head, not wanting to think where Sherlock's thought were wandering right now, he just had to stop this.

"Sherlock, just ease up a bit, will you? I think you should really consider dropping this Moriarty search right now, and get back to it when he abandon's the idea of..."

"You think he's serious?" cut in Sally, the same time as Moran huffed in irritation short "Are you serious, abandoning the search?"

"The man who sends a bomb is usually quite serious and I don't want to wait till someone is killed to check this. And I don't like the idea of people getting murdered on regular intervals!" Lestarde tred to keep hs anger in check; he folded his arms, trying his best not to look at still bend over the letter Sherlock, wonderful, brilliant Sherlock who certainly could see the madness, the mindless destruction the 'game' will bring, who could stop this before it begun. DI hoped, time after time, that one day Sherlock will choose what is right. He grabbed Sherlock arm, forcing him to look up. "Sherlock, think of this; every two hours one person, that makes 12 a day, all you have is photo... This could go on for _weeks_! Think. Of. Those. People."

"Where's your perspective, Inspector?" chimed in Moran, positioning himself between two man, shielding Sherlock from... who knew? "People will die, yes. But if we catch Moriarty the crime rate will drop for years! Sherlock discovered he had a hand in 70% of organised crimes in last three years. Think of it! What is 12 people to _hundreds_ of killed, hurt, robbed and raped?

Damned Moran. There WAS something in Sherlock's eye, Lestrade was sure, there was some sort of regret before, but after those words the consulting detective resumed his indifferent pose.

"I will crack the case as fast as I can. And you, Lestrade, try to find what you can about the bomb. In two hours we will know how he kills; then you will have more to do. Goodbye. "

And he left with a swirl of his damned coat, with his damned sidekick at his heels. Lestrade wanted to punch the wall in frustration.

It didn't exactly help when he overheard Sally talking about her date tomorrow, with the Sebastian Fuckin' Moran.

* * *

"I think I'm starting to get jealous" muttered John from the kitchen of their suite, pouring himself a cup of tea, pointedly ignoring naked Jim Moriarty, who was spread all over the table in the living room, buried deep in the photos, files and documents about Holmes. "I come back from Pakistan. Tired, sore and dying from tea – deprivation. And what is the first thing I hear when I come home? Was it 'Johnny, how nice to see you, look, I'm making tea for you'?"

"But I'm naked" said Jim impatiently, flipping through thick dossier that was so top secret you should burn it before reading. "Last time you mentioned that as a preferable form of welcoming."

"Yes, but the part with dragging to bedroom was not including walls covered with photos of some completely unfamiliar guy and shouts of 'look John, this is Sherlock, I'm going to kill him soon, omgomgomg' and girly squeaks."

"You still didn't look" sulked Jim, who made the effort and rolled from the table just to corner John between the fridge and the counter, kissed him soundly, and almost threw in his face photo of Sherlock Holmes. John, out of pure reflex and in post – kiss haze (what was it with this madman leaving him all restless and bothered after a single kiss?), caught it and, out of habit this time, looked into the face of their archenemy.

It was beautiful. The man was... just beautiful and as much as John wanted to find any other word there was none. He wasn't handsome; the face was tad too long, his lips a bit too thin. He didn't look nice; entire man radiated with cold and indifference. And the eyes - even on the photo John could feel how sharply they would dig into the brain, all wits and intelligence, stripping your soul and clawing into the mind. For the first time in many, many years John couldn't remember how to breathe properly, out of the sheer force of this picture... He never saw Holmes, of course, but he knew, somehow, that his movements were fast, sharp and catlike, predatory and when he turns, the coat...

And there was Jim, clearing his throat with amusement (jealousy?), grabbing the photo and draping himself all over John, kissing him in earnest this time, tongue exploring, hands claiming what was theirs.

Coat, he thought as Jim's nails dug painfully into his back. There was a coat, John was sure.

Jim drew back and chuckled, but there was an edgethe Doctor learned not to ignore.

"Not in the mood, are you" he asked, and before John could explain (how? 'there was a coat and I can't get it out of my head'? Romantic, that is. 'I'm tired'? Jim always knew when he was lying, anyway) Jim in one fluid move threw John at the fridge, face first, and twisted his bad, left arm behind his back.

John hissed in pain.

"I have to go now, Johnny. I love you, but you see... business. John. John. _Johnny._ Masturbate for me tonight. I will know, and it will be beautiful, I'll sit with those idiots and I'll know you are on the bed, all hot and messy and hard just for me. Just. For. Me." with three last words Jim pulled his lover's hand a bit higher, just to emphasise the point. John bit back a groan of pain, but managed nonetheless to say, if just a little out of breath:

"I'd rather do it _with_ you, Jimmy. I'm just back... stay?"

"I love you" Jim instantly let John go, and kissed him again, tenderly this time. "Be a good boy. I WILL know."

John nodded, taught time and time again that Jim meant every word, and that his wishes were not really guidlines. But of course Jim couldn't really know what John thought about, could he? And those eyes...

John kissed Jim back, fighting the urge to back away and run, thinking where exactly in the last 20 minutes it went all wrong. He loved Jim. He loved JIM.


	2. Chapter 2

**PART 2**

"So. A chair." said Sebastian slowly and carefully, taught time after time that Sherlock working on a case is as much fun as a homemade minefield in the night; you just never knew what could blow up in your face and what would set it off. Last time it was anchovies, which smelled 'thoughtless and idiotising', so pointing out to the consulting detective that he somewhat missed a chair that stood in the middle of the room could be a bit tricky. Really, it seemed that Sherlock examined every flake of dust in that damned flat C of their house, but never even looked at the damn, big, obvious, noticeable chair. "It was on the photo, you know."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance while running around the window and checking what he could see outside at different angles.

"Sebastian, your deducing skills will soon outshine mine, you truly outdid yourself this time." he sneered, tapping furiously on his phone while sniffing the curtains. Moran folded his arm, taking another good look around, and finding really nothing except the chair to lay his eyes on, much less deduce.

"I find your sarcasm disturbing" he settled on saying, walking over to examine the chair (ah, well, someone had to do the hard work while the other made an idiot out of himself, right?), which had a strange stain on the seat, as if muddy or...

"Yes, Sebastian, that is blood on that seat. Please be so kind and do not touch it, we'll waste some time doing useless DNA tests, just in case Moriaty wants to be obvious. The real question is why and where"

"And how he or she died", muttered Sebastian, frowning and bending down to examine the stain. "I can't think of any..."

Sherlock grabbed him by the arms, and forced him down on his knees in one swift movement that didn't even give Moran time to react. His face got shoved into the chair, and when his all muscles braced, getting ready to fight, Sherlock let him go, and went back to examining the window, pointedly this time.

"No one died, that's the problem. Nosebleed, Sebastian, that is nosebleed, notice the..."

"I'd rather not. You mean someone was thrown on the ground, but there was the chair and he smashed his nose? That's our mystery? Sounds lame as shit." Sebastian sighed in resignation. "And that's with the damn window, anyway?"

"Oh, we're being watched since we left the Yard, I'm just trying to see if I can make out who is this. And your memory is astounding, Sebastian. This chair belongs to Molly Hooper from the Bart's morgue; on her desk she has a photo of her cat sitting on it."

"Molly? Molly was kidnapped with a chair that she has a photo of and that was our clue? Jesus, that's crazy. The chair? Why the fucking chair?"

"I'd rather know where does it lead us next. And why Molly Hooper?"

* * *

John woke up to the sight of Jim hovering above him with his sweet little distraught expression he usually wore when some petty criminal started threatening him (in this case it was rather complete incomprehension) or when the oven didn't work.

"Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper are not a pair" said Jim, shaking John awake. "Do you understand? They are not shagging. You know what does it mean? Do you?"

"That I'll have to patch up several of your men who were responsible for data on Holmes?"

"Yes. No. That too, but that means we have just made idiots out of ourselves. I – DIOTS. Oh God, save me, John, you're used to that!" Jim looked panicked, what wasn't really a surprise; it was a maniacal stage of Moriarty's month, and if it weren't for the stability and normalcy John provided as Jim's right hand man the carefully built crime organisation could (and probably would) crumble. Normally collected, composed, reasonable man with dozens of plans and thousands of scenarios flying through his head every minute, as he dived into depths of business and deception, changed into overly emotional, driven by whims little brat with an attention span of goldfish with ADD. John pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the headache coming any second now.

"Okay. Where is she?"

"In our living room, I had her dragged here to make my awesome villainy speech, but why should I waste it on some mousy lousy morgue girl, not blessed with Sherly's semen daily ?" asked Jim, throwing some clothes at John, who made an effort to stand up. "Really, horrible, wasting my time on this. She's crying and that's completely disgusting, those little humans are so idiotic and... Oh."

John paused with one leg in trousers and the other in mid-air. 'Oh' was one of the things you didn't really want to hear from criminal mastermind, especially not when he was looking at you intently and quite cheerfully. There could be numerous reasons for that 'oh' but John suspected that this time they had a little to do with 'oh, let's go to some fancy restaurant, you must be hungry' or 'oh, I just remembered I've bought you entire 'The Office' on DVD', and much to do with cleaning after Jim's little plans.

"No, Jim." he said calmly, as if speaking to a dog or child. "I will not kill her. No. Not in our living room."

"Oh please" Jim took matters (or, rather, trousers) in his own hands and started dressing John up, hastening him. "I want you to talk to her, ask who is the significant other of Sherly – boy, get as much as you can, and then let our boys dispose of her somewhere– you know I hate body fluids of any kind in the living room. A little murder will cheer Sherly up, our A – team is getting a bit restless and some fun with a girl will do them good, we'll have information and I'll have some free time to learn Chinese. Perfect."

John opened the door, casting a glance in the direction of the couch, where sat small, thin blonde with her hands shackled with ridiculous pink and fluffy handcuffs. She was sobbing quietly, trembling in fear and despair; he also noticed, mostly because he really knew where to look, red marks on her upper arms, unmistakably made by unnecessarily rough grip.

"You'll waste you precious time with the arrangements, Jimmy. Just leave me the car keys and I'll settle this. Our A – Team won't be up to this kind of fun, with the amounts of alcohol they consume daily" he said finally, a bit flippantly, winking at Jim who busied himself with looking expectantly at bed, as if surprised it didn't made itself under his commanding gaze. Jim just hummed appreciatively; he loved when John killed, love the blood, the power, the thrill of hearing sighs of agony from his victims. 'I'm shagging destiny' he would say, or sing to any tune he could think of, draping himself over bulky frame of John's.

John took his gun from the nightstand and shoving it behind his belt (this was one of the fights Jim would never win, no matter how many holsters he would buy) walked over to Molly Hooper, closing the door behind his loudly, so that she would have time to prepare herself for the talk. She raised her eyes, watery, bloodshot, red-rimmed from the sobbing, and he smiled.

"Hello, you're Molly Hooper, right?" he started pleasantly, walking over and trying to look as non threatening as he could; as a doctor and just generally quite decent bloke (well, if you don't count those jobs he had, but they were not really his thing, now were they? It was just for Jim, he rally could do without) he managed that quite well for people in worse situations than sitting in nice, domestic living room scattered with papers, computers, magazines, medical journals and dvd's. Molly's breath hitched, but she stopped sobbing, as she nodded her head nervously, unsure what was in store for her. he came closer and tried to take hold of her hurt arm, but she flinched away from his touch almost falling down from the armchair.

"Don't! Please, don't!" she sobbed again, and John raised his arms so that she could see them.

"I don't want to hurt you, just to take look on those bruises; I'm a doctor, and I'll check if there is no real damage, those men just don't know their strength" Oh, they very much did but she could live without that knowledge. Reluctantly, she held her handcuffed arms up to him, showing the bruise. "And we'll do something about those handcuffs, if you promise me you will not do something stupid as try to escape or hit me. If you do, many painful things could happen, believe me, there are armed men everywhere, and they are more competent than those evil minions in Bond movies. If you comply, you'll probably be home this evening. Okay? I just want to talk."

Molly nodded her head in sharp, broken movements; after opening the cuffs John sat on the armrest and massaged her wrists (also bruised; he should really have a nice little chat with those stupid dicks with bog guns and no brain).

"So, you know Sherlock Holmes, yes?" he started when her breathing resembled normal. "Listen, all I want to know is who he associates with.."

"Why did you kidnap me?" she asked suddenly, raising her teary face, looking straight into John's eyes. "Why. Me?"

"Well, you see... We had those information you and Sherlock were... close." before he could say anything else, she started giggling, then laughing and at the end sobbing hysterically; John could think of many reactions, but this one left him completely baffled. Inside jokes were no fun during those little talks. Molly straightened up, as suddenly as she indulged herself in a fit of sobbing laugher, he eyes shining dangerously and John felt suddenly glad that he still held her hands in gentle but firm grip.

"It's like this, huh? Me and him – together? Because we'll sit in that damned cafe every Sunday, yes? He just comes there, sits and sends text messages, sometimes he doesn't even speak. If he does, it's usually something completely horrible, he insults me all the time and I'm stupid enough to sit through it all. I love him! I love Sherlock Holmes!" she screamed at John, who just looked at her, still caressing her wrists with his thumbs in soothing manner. "I love him and he takesme to the cafe just because this stupid flatmate of his thinks it's only fair to me after all I do for them both, showing them bodies and letting them take body parts and... And I feel so stupid but when he looks at me I just can't... I hate them, I hate them, I HATE THEM!"

She started crying again, and John just held her close, allowing her to cling to his favourite jumper (not minding the tears and saliva that would eventually end up wetting it; somehow it didn't really matter). And she clung to him as if he was her last lifeline, her fingers digging deep into his chest, her entire frame pressing against him, in search of the warmth and comfort he was not sure he could give.

"I'll tell you everything, everything you want to know" she whispered between the sobs. "Just take me home, please. Please."

With the corner of his eye he noticed Jim, who looked through the partially open doors and gave him thumbs up and several kisses. Something deep in John's guts twisted and burned unpleasantly; something eerily similar to disgust, but he was not quite sure if it was directed at Jim, or at himself.

* * *

She told him many things, clinging to him as if the world would crumble and fall the minute she let him go. It was mostly about the Sherlock's fascination with bizarre experiments (if John was any ordinary man, he would probably be disgusted), his cynical manner, his hurtful comments, his _brilliance_ , and how his eyes _shine_ when he thinks and, last but definitely not least, Sebastia Moran, the only important person in his life.

"He uses others like cheap Kleenex. Only with Sebastian... He listens to him. They make it a game, the whole crime solving, their playground where they can show how clever they are" she said, sniffling soundly and John choose not to think about the state of his jumper right now. "And he says his name, all the time, as if it was... lucky charm, I don't know. If anyone ever said my name like that..."

John shifted uncomfortably, thinking of that bloodchilling and heartwarming 'Johnny' from Jim and how he loved that. Oh god, they were sickingly _gay_ , weren't they. She babbled something about epic bromance, John was not really in the mood, thinking of the gun, the ride and what he had to do. What he chose to do, which was making it only slightly better but ten times worse, at the same time. When she finished, Jim went out of the room and waved to them goodbye; Molly, much calmer and collected, clutched John's hand reflexively and let it go only when they had to get into the car. First five minutes passed in silence; she looked outside the window, on the fields that surrounded their apartament in the middle of nowhere.

"Are you really going to let me go?" she asked suddenly, her voice choked; she probably realised by now that she knew tad too much about the kidnappers to go free and spill everything to the police. John took a deep breath, concentrating on the road. She took hold of his upper arm, clinging to him again as if in those waters he was her lifeline rather than killer shark. "You're going to kill me, yes? Is there anything..."

"No, not really"

"Oh. I thought so." she said tearfully, drawing in a shaky breath. "You were too nice for it to be true, stupid me..."

"I'm not going to kill you, Molly." said John. "I know you will go to the police, give them my description and tell them about the hideout... I'm not stupid. And I'm not a good man, either. But killing you... You really think I'd let you blow your nose in my jumper if I intended to shoot you?"

"Sorry about that. And I have absolutely dreadful memory, you know?" she giggled in elation, a bit giddy from the adrenaline, he could tell. "You'll be in trouble, won't they... I don't know, kill you?"

"That's my problem. Look..." he pulled over near the phone booth. "There's a phone so you can call your seven dwarfs, princess. I'll wish you prince, but that would require rather nasty apple and you had your share of excitement today."

She threw herself on his neck, holding him close; before she drew away, she place a rather messy and teary kiss on his cheek.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou... Oh, God. I won't tell them how you look like, I won't, really! And I think you're not a hunter in this fairytale, but a real, true, good prince..."

"John, by the way. I'll be all over the news any day now, so you might as well know now. And I wouldn't be so sure about that good prince part. "

"You'll be Prince John for me." She climbed out of the car, and stood in the middle of the street watching him go. She thought about calling police, but... No, she would go to Bart's first, here she will find someone, Mike or Dave, who will see to her arm (she was pathologist, and wanted a second opinion) and then she will go back to her flat and have long, hot bath. And she will forget about John, one of few really _good_ men she ever encountered. She was a reasonable woman, after all.

And John went home, thinking of things Jim might do to him for such a stupidity and how similar he and Molly were. Under the spell of this utter _brilliance_ and that _shining_.

* * *

Moran never liked going to the Bart's. He was a soldier, and white walls that smelled of chemicals, death and antiseptic were hardly appealing; besides, sitting and toying with his phone while Sherlock took blood samples was hardly his favourite way of spending time.

Lestrade called for a dozenth time, and, as before, Moran just ignored it in favour of building a tower from some sticks he found in the top drawer. For God's sake, DI had really nothing to do in this fucking job of his if he was calling every five minutes. It might be a bit unfair on their part, Sebastian thought, because texting him that Molly Hooper was kidnapped and they were going to Bart's to run some blood test's might be a bit... brief, but Lestrade and his team never did any good on the cases, did they? What was the point in including them, then?

Sherlock murmured something incomprehensible. Then drew in a sharp breath, his entire posture rigid for a moment, as always when the inspiration came. Moran loved to watch those small moments of true brilliance, because, really, the man was a wonder. If he would only let Sebastian do some things his way... Well, they would be perfect. And Mycroft would cover unlimited number of bodies, that was for sure.

"Molly's office" said Sherlock, and leaped to the door, the same time getting to a lengthy explanation "This is not Molly's blood, it was frozen, the lead is Bart's and chair is for her office. There is our second clue, and in twenty minutes we will know how he intends to kill and who would it be. Molly? Unlikely, the threat would me much more straightforward, no, there must be something else entirely. There must be... Molly."

Sebastian, who followed Sherlock like a puppy (and hated himself for that; on the other hand, not following would mean no fun, and self – respect could go to hell for all fun cared) almost smashed into his back, as the consulting detective stood abruptly.

There was Molly, her face red and eyes bloodshot, hair and clothes dishevelled, and it seemed that unable to stand straight, as a fat bloke in round glasses had to held her up.

"Sherlock, please talk some sense into her, she comes to me with clear signs of the attack, look at those bruises, and she doesn't want to go to police!" Round man practically screamed, his big face reddening in frustration. Moran, always a gentleman, moved to support Molly from the other side, but she, swaying slightly, snatched her arm from his grip.

"NO! Nothing really happened, and..."

"You were kidnapped by Moriarty. I doubt that 'nothing really happened'" said Sherlock, watching her as if she was one of his crime scenes. Moran looked at her face, tightened in anger, but before he could propose anything rational, like calling Letrade or just seating down, dammit, the girl could barely stand, when the round guy in glasses made a strange, choked noise, which was followed by:

"Moriarty? Jim Moriarty? He worked here in IT... Oh God, my friend from med school worked for him, John Watson... "

"John? John Watson? No..." shrieked Molly suddenly, swaying and if it wasn't for Moran's reflexes she would end on the floor surely. "Don't say that name, please. You can't say that. Sherlock will now figure this out!"

And she fainted right into Sebastian's arms. Sherlock didn't even look in her direction, his eyes transfixed on something too far in his mind to notice the ongoing events.

"John Watson" he whispered, as if tasting the words. "That name... I..."

And the telephone rang.

* * *

First victim was female, age 22, with curls of blond hair around her pretty face. She lied in a pool of her own blood on the sidewalk right outside the Baker Street 221b, shot one time in the head by a sniper. ("Well, it hit close to home" muttered Moran, after hearing this, and Sherlock had to hide his smile.) All important data, but not as important as the next clue; or rather, the next mystery, connected with a body on Molly's desk, lied neatly as if prepared for the burial.

Man, 30 – 40 years old, hard to determine, sitting lifestyle (banker? office worker? more probably, insufficient data), no tattoos, scars and – oh, yes, injection marks on abdomen, diabetic, left handed, traditionalist to the point of snobbism (chin! look at the chin!)... Sebastian (quickly returned, not interested in Molly, good) was searching through the drawers; pointless, would keep him quiet. Dead man's chart, John Powers...

That name, John Watson, sounded familiar and Sherlock realised, with disdain and irritation, that some part of his brain devoted itself to searching the name, mulling it over, turning over and over, getting _something_ out of it.

Still. John Powers, age 35, allergic to the bees and after the sting... Not the wife, too obvious and even the police would check; Sebastian stares: bad? good? insufficient data, no matter. The man had a lover, obvious, and it was...

Yes, the lover is the next clue, bee sting is legitimate. There is something else, unsettling and just not right about the body. If he just could think properly, he would... No, talking to Sebastian is bad idea, he would joke, threw Sherlock off the track, the skull then; home and second crime scene, better take the gloves.

John Watson was the boyfriend from the letter, yes, this must be it. Must talk to Mike, take a description, Molly's not to be trusted. Stockholm's syndrome unlikely, just plain stupidity.

* * *

John stood in the middle of their London apartment, trying not to show the agitation he felt. He went back to the safehouse trying different scenarios in his head, all rather painful and not very nice; however finding out that Jim went to London to take the game with Holmes a step further, make it personal now that it didn't work the first time, was not among those. For a moment he considered throwing out the note stuck to the fridge, the one with "Come to London, got a job for you, take shower and your little Mary, XXX Jim" written, but then, as he took out 'Mary' (Jim named her; said it was knight – like and awesome, and the rule of awesome was one of the few he would stick to), his sniper rifle, from the cupboard, he realised that by sulking because he botched up the job and endangered dozens of Moriarty's man (Jim was not in any danger, never) he would achieve nothing.

"Johnny, Johnny, _Johnny_ " said Jim with a smile, hugging him close and patting his back. "I'm watching live feed of Sherly – boy, isn't he just cute? Look, jumping over this dead body..."

"What did you do?" John tried to look everywhere but the monitor, where the feed from HD camera was showing Sherlock Holmes during examination of the crime scene. It was bad enough John had those eyes permanently stuck in his brain now, just from the damned photo, he was not about to see whether the man had those feline, sharp but fluent movements John wanted him to have. Jim tutted in annoyance.

"Oh, Johnny, you're such a spoil – sport. I just had Bernie kill some passer - by on Baker Street, and while he tries both to solve those nonsensical riddles and get my snipers off his back, we'll have time to do what we came here for."

"Meaning?" John had a bad feeling about this. He had heard too many of Jim's plans in the night, as they spooned on the bed and it was all fine, great and calm. Plans about contaminating water in USA to show those dicks they were just annoying, stupid, full of puss spots on the face of Earth. The ones with small nuclear war in Arabia, to make the climate right (that one John read later in some science journal; this sent chills down his spine, but he didn't dare to ask). The ones with blowing up the London, just to see it burn. Like Nero burned down the Rome to make a poem, Jim wanted to blow up the London to make a symphony of screams in his head. "I rather like London, I'm quite attached to it, and I know on the good authority you are, too."

"But people tend to ignore me. People don't know about me, and I want them to say my name with respect, with fear, with so much fucking disgust it hurts their delicate tongues" answered Jim with spite. "Nevermind, it's my game and you don't need to worry your pretty head about it, especially now that I've got a job for you, Johnny, and you're going to love it! You've got to kidnap Sebastian the sidekick, and secure this pool... Take how many man you'll need so that Sherly and Sebby won't have a chance to escape, rig the place with explosives maybe... No, we'll put Sebby in some explosives... Semtex, look how it matches: Jim and John love Jam, Sherlock and Sebastian hate Semtex!"

"Don't use 'matches' with 'Semtex' at home, Jimmy. There's bound to be accident" said John with a grin. The prospect of organising the 'Pool Party', as he immediately called it, significantly improved his mood and he could (almost) forget about Molly and Sherlock, who managed tofind nice, visible spots in his brain and refused to leave it as much as he tried to throw them out. Jim giggled and clung to John in hasty, wet and, God, _intense_ kiss.

"Take care of this pool, it was my first case, sweetheart. There, with a little help from botulinium toxin, I disposed of Carl Powers, bully and downright idiot (honestly, I don't know what hurt worse, his punches or ignorance), and it was beautiful, oh, I wish you could see it! So much commotion, but no one even suspected murder... Except for Sherlock Holmes." He said, his lips almost touching John's earlobe, the hot breath sending chills down doctor's spine. "I'm starting the new era of crime, Johnny, and closing first part of my life is only suitable, don't you think?"

* * *

The body on their doorstep was clearly a random victim, and both Sherlock and Sebastian left it to Lestrade after ten minutes of staring (on Moran's part) and looking around to determine from where the shot was fired (Sherlock, of course). Not important, or at least not as important as John Powers (and John Watson, oh yes) and his lover; the name (names) slipped through Sherlock's consciousness, hid in the corners and shadows of his brain and managed to evade any direct encounter, what was even more frustrating than the lack of ideas as to what was the main reason for all this; the sniper, the bodies, useless clues and, in the beginning, Molly.

Oh. The coffee sessions.

"Sebastian, your advice was, as always, invaluable." exclaimed Sherlock in irritation, and heard a groan of irritation, with muffled with a biscuit 'What the hell did I do now?' which was one of 27 sentences most frequently used. Sherlock was always comforted by idea that if Sebastian ever lost his voice, he would need only several boards with phrases: 'I'm hungry', 'What is that? No, don't tell me!', 'What the hell did I do now' and 'Insert bad joke here' would practically cover it. But he was one of the few (only one?) who treated Sherlock as a human being (not a freak, not a genius, just... another man with strange hobbies) and that called for cutting a lot of slack.

"My meetings with Molly were taken as a sign of developing relationship of romantic nature" explained he calmly, flipping through the folder with information about John Powers, trying to find what exactly was so unsettling about the man.

"Good thing. He rather showed his hand with that one... and his stupidity. C'mon, you and dating?" while speaking, Sebastian wrestled with a beer bottle trying to open it with a knife; opener was, as Sherlock recalled, used in the experiment a few days ago and somehow managed to dissolve in acid. "Speaking of dating – today I've got a hot date with Sally D., so you'll have to look after your sorry butt all by yourself for a while."

Sherlock nodded fervently, smiling as the problem solved itself. Moriarty wanted it personal, so after kidnapping Molly he might try to kidnap someone else (high probability, Moriarty's thinking is usually similar to Sherlock's)... He'd just have to spread the word that Moran is going out, so that Moriarty's men would pick it up. Having him as a hostage would be much more acceptable than having Lestrade (higher chance of severe psychological distress, reflexes not personally tested) or... Well. There was really only Moran and Lestrade. And he knew exactly what to expect of Sebastian, so having him kidnapped... yes. Perfect solution.

One hour fifty four minutes to the next victim, he thought suddenly, standing abruptly and grabbing his coat and running down the stairs, thinking of all possible scenarios of meeting with John Powers'es lover. What he didn't expect, was that _he_ was expected, and not because the police fatigued itself.

"He was really nice, this man" said rather attractive blonde, Jennie Munch, busying herself with making tea(unnecessarily, of course, Sherlock had no intention to stay any longer than absolutely necessary), as they sat in the kitchen. "He smiled so sweetly, asked about my dog, and then gave me those papers and warned me you would come to get them. I... I am not sure why I really agreed, this is all so hazy... He was just so nice, y'know? "

Sherlock tuned her out, as he examined pages full of numbers (basic substitution? no, not possible, wrong distribution, wrong direction...) knowing that if the woman had anything relevant to say, Sebastian would pick it up. Having an assistant who could force himself to listen to those boring little _humans_ was really useful.

Fifteen minutes to the next victim and a cipher. And he must call Mycroft to get information on John Watson; the man was so unsettling that even prospect of asking his horrible brother for, how disgustingly pedestrian, help was acceptable price for any particulars. And maybe then this treacherous part of Shelrock's brain would stop trying to bring it up on every occasion.

* * *

Jim Moriarty was a busy man. He ran seven legal businesses, all unimaginably successful and dull, and one criminal organisation that was a fungi on the soft and juicy tissue of society. Not a cancer; whoever said crime was a cancer had a little to do with biology or crime (probably both). There was nothing mindless about the destruction; there was nothing really fatal in his doings, because once the tissue is dead, the cancer is even more so (okay, exactly the same, but... feel the drama of the metaphor!). Jim, like some fungi, could commit crimes on his own and make a living of that: he occasionally delegated his men to rob some bank, steal some jewels, make a revolution in some tiny country, easy things so that they had something to do. But it was leeching off on crimes of others that counted; that was fun, the planning, the negotiating, setting up traps within traps so that he would have those pitiful little creatures under his thumb.

In his line of work he learned how to spot the right man for the job - that's how he knew John Watson would be so useful (so sweet, fascinating unpredictable and uncommon in his ordinariness), how he enlisted the best snipers from around the world, and the main reason why, despite 200 other things he should be doing, he was staring at the files of colonel Sebastian Moran.

The right man for the job, screamed at Jim every page of the file, this man is dangerous, deadly and has his own take on moral code. He collected knives and firearm, for FSM's sake, shoot like a pro, had something about 20 kills on his official record, and Jim didn't have to read between the lines that there were many, many more.

Fascinating guy, thought Moriarty as he skipped through the pages impatiently, and it might be wise to warn John about... Nah. Jim will take care of it himself, he would talk to Sebastian... (he rolled the name on his tongue for a while, quite likening the taste) and give him the offer he can't refuse. If he's really fit for the job, being kidnapped won't shake him too much and he will be able to think logically, or, at least, as logically as any of these little idiots can.

Jim dropped the papers in the pile on the floor, and went to solemnize the grand 'taking the trainers out of the box' event. He wanted to do it after John came back, but then it could take hours and Jim was sure Sherlock won't take long with the cipher. It was amazing that the consulting detective could so easily forget his first case. Throwing him John Powers in the face should raise the alarm; apparently something else was on Sherly's mind.

The shoes, kept in vacuum container, carefully hid so many years ago, haven't really changed. Still a bit dirty, with the shoelaces that held the last clue Sherlock will be given...

Oh, it will be a blast. First disposing of Sherlock Holmes, then – destroying London. Perfect, thought Moriarty stroking the trainers lovingly.

* * *

Preparing the pool was a piece of cake, and even knowing what happened to Hannibal Smith's plans every time he said that, John didn't feel discouraged. He took four men, he would be the fifth. There was no way he would leave Jim's safety in the hands of those half – assed snipers who thought holding a branch in front of your face was a camouflage. John could take better ones, of course; but there was really no need as the point of the plan he came up with Jim was not to shoot.

"Boss, when will we know Holmes and Moriarty pose a direct threat to Mr. Moriarty and it's not a part of the plan?" asked one of the brightest sharp – shooters from the lot, as they were preparing their posts. "Because that's the hazy part, we've got to keep Mr. Moriarty safe, but not to shoot?"

"You'll know when I put a bullet in Holmes's brain" smirked John, feeling the _rush_ , the adrenaline pumping through his system, as he stood on the gallery of the pool which was right now the top of the world for him. Oh, he felt so much alive... He felt luck pumping through his veins. Stupid, really, and if he was in his right mind, he would leave that mission to someone else... But meeting Moran face to face before kidnapping him, to get the impression how hard it would be, had this air of absurd and insanity John sought for. He raised the walkie talkie.

"Doreen, sweetie, could you tell me if there's any sign of Mark One on the cameras?" he asked, as always feeling a little uncomfortable talking to her. The girl had a crush on him and well, it made things a bit embarrassing for the both of them, as John couldn't bring himself to tell her he was not interested. Her answer was a happy giggle (cute, really), and, after a while:

"Mr Watson, Mark One is in the Scotland Yard with Big Damn Hero, or at least that's the last place they were spotted. Oh, and how are the preparation's going, if I might ask? Is there any need of assistance, because the team assigned to Trafalgar Square finished early and..."

"Thank you Doreen, just what I wanted to know" she was saying something more, probably about the new restaurant nearby, but John's brain stopped after 'Trafalgar's Square'. There really was something Jim was not telling him, and he had an idea what it would be... but, now, he had his own problems. "You're a real darling, you know that? I've got some errands to run, could you screen me out of the picture again? Thank you, Doreen!"

And, with several tips and pats on the back for the snipers, he left for the Scotland Yard.

* * *

"Two victims this time, Sherlock. I really hope you know what are you doing." said Lestrade, as they made their way from his office. Moran shook his head, leaned in and managed to whisper so loudly everyone in the room heard him perfectly.

"Don't talk to him, Inspector, he's having trouble with the cipher and that's taking 99% of his brain capacity... And that's quite funny that your team couldn't really pin point things he did with his 1%. Oh, Sally, how nice to see you. I hope you remember about our date, don't you, sweetheart?"

Sally, buried under the pile of reports, beamed at Sebastian, what was such a rare sight that Lestrade stared for a whole minute before he could carry on with his verbal hammer to Sherlock's thick skull.

"Sherlock. What is it all about? What is Moriarty trying to do, with this killings and ciphers?" he demanded, with the little regard for Sherlock's sulks (taught after years and years of their acquaintance, that the regression to the five year old was usually a call for attention). "We've got one and a half hour for the next victims, and I don't want to sit here doing nothing but answering calls with 'Sherlock Holmes is sitting and solving some damned puzzles, sorry, just don't go near the windows'!"

"Look, Moriarty just wants me to SEE something, Lestrade, you probably won't comprehend it, but in fact..."

"Hey, watch it!" cut in Moran, and both detectives, consulting or not, turned to see him on the floor, with a stack of papers and a short man all on the top. The man, short, sturdy, blonde, was clumsily getting back on his feet, repeating the word 'sorry' every two or three seconds, gathering papers and obviously trying very much to disappear. "Shit, man, look where you're going okay? If I wasn't really busy..."

"You'd what?" asked Sherlock, extending hand and helping Sebastian get up, smile creeping up on his features... and getting frozen the moment his eyes fell on the second figure, the man (precise movements, steady hands, good with the gun, then, and...) who, still sprouting 'sorry's' from left to right, raised his head to meet Sherlock's gaze.

They stood, unmoving, Sherlock still holding Sebastian's hand and the man bent over the papers; and the more consulting detective looked, the less he could deduce, think or tell. Those blue eyes, full of (what? embarrassment? that would be correct emotion for such a development, yes?) _life_ , just burned into Sherlock, and he found he yearned to leech off this gaze, to claw his way into that (probably quite empty... oh, who was he kidding!) skull, to rip this man apart in search of the clues as to what and who he was.

"Well, I hope you're okay, I'd hate if anything happened to you..." said the man, regaining his senses much quicker than Sherlock; Moran snarled something about today's date (not that the consulting detective noticed, the words were logged by his brain but it neglected to translate) and then, as suddenly as he appeared, the man was gone. Sherlock shook his head to clear this dreadful emptiness, paralysis that overcame his senses, and became aware of Lestrade's calls (desperate, now).

"... erlock, Sherlock! For God's sake, do you know this guy? You look as if you saw the ghost!"

"Know him? I have never seen him before in my life" said Sherlock, and as much as it was true, it was not really the answer to the question, not that any of those idiots would spot that. He didn't exactly _know_ the man; no part of his brain connected him with past cases, but that nagging feeling of rightness and understanding was still lingering. Lestrade and Moran were talking (about him? at him? irrelevant), but he knew what he had to do.

"Lestrade, no need to pursue personal files of the people murdered, concentrate on the sniper, go and fetch me ballistic reports. Sebastian, get us a cab, I'll be with you in the moment." he ordered, and before anyone could say anything ( _irrelevant, irritating_ ) he disappeared to the nearest toilet. Fumbling with his phone, he once again tried to deduce the man (THE man, from now on, there will be people, The Man and The Woman... creativity in naming was not something he valued), get anything from their short encounter.

"To what I owe the pleasure, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft Holmes in his annoyingly cheerful manner. Sherlock could feel his teeth itch.

"Hello brother, I need a file on doctor John Watson, he was in RAMC and..."

"Now he's working for Moriarty, yes. Is there any point in asking why you changed your mind, or should I guess?"

Sherlock remembered their last little talk, on Mummy's birthday, when he refused Mycroft's help, in any form, with Moriarty and his organisation... But John Watson was a separate case, and mentioning him in the same sentence as 'Moriarty' was a misunderstanding. Before he could ask his brother about the diet, Mycroft continued.

"I can give you the official file now, the full one will be available tomorrow. No need to thank me, dear brother."

"I never intended to thank you." said automatically Sherlock, but, realising that the files might 'accidentally' loose a few pages if he's too arrogant and ungrateful, he quickly added "And I'll solve one of your tedious, boring cases, if you wish..."

"The particulars of the case will be delivered with the files tomorrow. Goodbye, Sherlock, try to eat and sleep more." before Sherlock could disconnect the call ending it with angry silence, Mycroft added "Remember what you're doing, dear brother, who are you pursuing and _why_."

And HE hung up. How rude.

* * *

Next part: THE POOL. And someone gets shot...

Of course, a comment or two would probably make me write faster... wink, wink, nudge, nudge


	3. The pool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, another chapter is finally done. Great thanks to all of those who commented (I'll answer those, really!) and to those who left kudos. Now,  
> WARNINGS: foul language, more foul language, strongly implied dub-con and some nudity.
> 
> Enjoy?

**PART 3**

Normally, if anyone asked Albert Leech why he loved being a cabbie, he would honestly say, with only a hint of affectation, that it was all because of people he met on regular basis – ordinary people, who could be fascinating, brilliant, insightful, interesting, good kind of crazy, funny and remarkable. His short conversations were the only thing that kept him on this job (that, three children, almost none education, and his wife's expensive gardening hobby, but everyone likes hyperboles), he would say melancholically, hinting, after several moments of silence, that he was a sociologist, ha!, a philosopher among cabbies.

If someone asked him now, while he was driving around the London with some weirdo in woollen jumper, he would say that he didn't really bloody know, because even the income a cab provided was not enough to compensate. First – the guy seemed normal enough as he climbed in the cab near the Scotland Yard, but, after telling the address in the City, he started giggling, then quietly laughing just to get almost hysterical in amusment. Okay. Albert could live with that, if he didn't fumble with his phone next (still giggling like a schoolgirl) and called somewhere...

"Did you SEE this?" he smirked in the speaker, taking out a piece of paper with his free hand and using his knee as a pad. "Oh God, his face... Well, you can hardly blame me, I wanted to see fucking Moran, not tackle him to the floor, and being face to face with freaking Holmes can be third kind encounter. Yeah, but I nicked his phone, so our plan will go smoother than I anticipated... Thank you, Doreen, you're a wonder! Yes. Yes. Yes. NO, no way?"

Albert, hearing about 'nicking a phone' almost turned in the one way street in surprise, but quickly reminded himself that he did not know the context. And he would be happy for the rest of the drive, thinking of Kierkegaard and Plato, if he was not patted on the arm.

"Er, there's been a change, and we're going to Sutton" said Jumper – man, smiling sweetly, and Albert remembered suddenly that it would mean much bigger fee. Hooray, how many strange calls can a man do while one drive? As if the universe wanted to check its irony circuits, the moment he thought that, phone of his passenger rung.

"Jim? Yeah, preparations of the pool are going splendid. Oh, Moran is handed to us on the silver plate... How did you know? No, really, you talked to Doreen? I don't believe you, you wanker. You can't know I run into Sherlock Holmes... Okay. Yes. Okay. What? Those blue silk boxers that you've bought me, for the luck... Oh. OH. really? Why not in a bed? Look I'm in a cab now, and I'm NOT having phone sex while cabbie might hear...No, I will not kill him and take over the car. No matter how hard you'd get. "

Context, reminded himself stoically Albert, even though he was much more epicurean in his beliefs. There must be some context to this conversation that enables to read it in completely normal and even humorous way.

"Jim, where are you? I could... What do you mean in bloody 221b Baker Street? Sorry..." there was, again a pat on Albert's back. "We're going on Baker Street, not to Sutton. Jim, I really hope you really know what you're doing, because if not, I'll kick your skinny little ass so hard, you're going to have troubles with sitting for a week... No, even if the effect's the same, I won't ... you know. Yes, the cabbie is still here. No. No, I won't. Yes. WHAT? I'm not having sex on Sherlock Holmes's sofa, no bloody... Green? Don't touch it. Even if it bloody moves, I don't care, it could be deadly dangerous... Okay, bye. Look..." there was  _another damned pat_ on Albert's back, and Jumper-man sighed. "Look, could you drive me to the pool on the... "

Albert realised, with stunning clarity, that he never wanted to be a cabbie.

* * *

As much as impossible and illogical it sounded, it seemed that the cipher mocked Sherlock, laughed in his face with each and every number it had and insulted him by every curve of threes' and eights'. He was sitting on the sofa, still in the coat and gloves, just staring at the neat rows of seemingly random combinations of Arabic numerals for about four hours (seven victims, scattered around London, three  _inside_ Bart's, four just on the outside – Lestrade provocatively insisted on counting time in bodies) and nothing, really nothing came to his mind. He tried all the classical codes and methods with no result, several mathematical methods based on prime numbers failed completely.

There might be something distracting about the fact that the skull was moved by two centimetres on the left, meaning that either Sebastian had worse memory than he insisted (low chance) or someone was in the flat during their absence and Mrs. Hudson didn't notice. Second factor that could mess with Sherlock's concentration was a rather thick folder with neatly written 'John Hamish Watson' on the top, which had interestingly magnetic properties as somehow Sherlock's gaze always ended up glued to it... but he had no time to read the blasted thing, he had a cipher to solve.

Sebastian was rummaging through the kitchen again; after staring for a minute at the page, he just shrugged and left Sherlock to it, which was rather sensible of him, as the brainwork and joys of mystery solving were rather lost to him. Actually, after hearing another dull 'thud' of the cupboard being closed with a tad too much force, Sherlock would be quite happy for Sebastian himself to be lost. No, that was not quite true. Sebastian was useful and much more acceptable to have around than the rest of the idiots he knew, he never judged even the craziest notions of Sherlock's and understood the  _need_  to chase, to shine, to stare into the void and to make it look back.

If only he would... This sounded too sentimental and  _normal_  even in Sherlock's head, but he just wanted Sebastian to  _care_ , instead of spilling jokes from left to right and walking into fire fights with little regard for anyone's safety, just with half crazed smile and his aura of invincibility. He wanted someone who could tell him where were the boundaries and where was that double white line he should not cross.

When another cupboard rattled, he dropped the cipher and snatched the file, ticking out in his head next five victims. If he couldn't solve it now, he could at least do something useful. He opened the folder to look if the man he met was really John Watson, not that he wasn't sure, he could deduce it from...

He dropped the file, and the papers scattered on the floor. Sebastian, hearing the commotion even over the racket he did with pans, appeared almost instantly, asking 'What happened, Sherlock, you all right?' but it was all in the background as Sherlock's brain switched to next gear, the cogs stopping for a millisecond and then turning furiously in desperate need to understand how was that even possible.

Next to nice, portrait photo of John Hamish Watson that showed him as a bit spook and self conscious cadet, was a bigger photo showing (even if the face was not shown, Sherlock could tell by the scars on the hands) the same John Watson naked, his body tensed in sexual anticipation, skin sparkling with sweat, the massive hard – on glistering with pre-cum. As much as attention – grabbing was the photo itself (it was perfect, artistic and Sherlock found it aesthetically pleasing even despite sexual content he usually despised), it was the inscription on the back that made him really shiver.

"Damn, your brother is into porn now? Never thought he had it in him..." said Moran looking over Sherlock's shoulder, sneering just a tad too close to his ear for Sherlock's comfort. Sherlock turned the photo again, showing him what was written, in red block letters. "Wait...' _I've got tons of better photos of him, Sherly. And as much as swashbuckle his biography is, it's not a great literature... Have something nicer to read instead. Love, Jim. PS. You don't want me to get jealous over him, Sherly. Really._ ' What is this all about? Sherlock?"

Consulting detective shoved the photo into Sebastian's hand and dropped to his knees to gather the papers he let so carelessly fly all around the place, cursing his own stupidity. Book code! Why had this one possibility slipped his mind?

"This creep meddled with papers at the police?" asked Moran, as he, too, tried to gather the papers. "Switching Watson files to some book took guts and brain, I'll give him that."

"Sebastian, your ignorance is somewhat heart-warming. He didn't mess with official papers, he just came here and switched them after Mycroft's assistant left it here." Sherlock finally found the front page, and held it up for Moran to read. " 'Moby Dick', what does it tell you?"

"Don't tell me you don't know 'Moby Dick'! Hell, everyone knows it's about a white whale and a captain obsessed about catching him" said Sebastian, dumping the papers on the coffee table. "You think that Moriarty wants you to think that you're just as fucked up like the guy in the book? That you'll never catch him?"

But Sherlock was already buried in the loose pages and the cipher, grouping the numbers, trying the combinations and trying not to think about presence of James Moriarty that still lingered in the flat; the skull, moved only two centimetres to the left, was now, in Sherlock's mind, contaminated, as he could imagine Moriatry touching it with his dirty, sweaty fingers... the same fingers that made the body on the photo flex in ecstasy, his ever helpful mind supplied and he felt the irrational urge to crush the skull to the dust. The anger, frustration and the fact that it was getting personal, more personal than Sherlock wanted to admit, fuelled his brain, as the numbers finally,  _finally_ started making sense, the possible connections and phrases rolling smoothly around his brain in this hazy state of higher attention when everything became a blur of facts, numbers and words. The pages turned, blurred, merged with one another, anything else ceased to exist and he didn't even really heard his phone ringing, or Sebastian taking it out of his pocket. The numbers. It was a riddle, stupid little riddle about water and...

"Oh."

"What is 'oh' this time?" asked Moran curiously, abandoning the search through his pockets (what was he looking for? Irrelevant) in favour of staring in at Sherlock, who just sat there, self – satisfying smile creeping onto his face.

"Carl Powers" he said in joy, feeling the elation hat came with understanding the case completely. "Our case is the death of Carl Powers, my first try at using the deduction to solve crimes. It appears me and Jim have a history together..."

* * *

John, who was checking the angles of the sniper stands for a hundredth time, could feel Jim sneaking up to him long before he could actually hear him coming up the stairs, and because of that he could say what he had to say before he lost the momentum he gathered during his little talks with Doreen.

"You're not telling me everything about this plan" he threw over his shoulder, trying hard not to look at Jim, so that this genius and brilliance of his wouldn't drain his thoughts. Jim's mind was not a sun, as he firstly suspected, that one can live on or reflect it; he was a damn black hole, that radiated with most peculiar thoughts, but consummated everything and every _one_  in seconds. "You don't intend to blow up the pool only, you're going to demolish the city."

Jim laughed and clung to John's back, hugging him from behind and placing light, teasing kisses along his neck.

"Johnny, you're getting smarter and smarter, are you now? I think I like that. But we've got an appointment to keep, maybe this pool is not exactly Sherly's couch, but who really cares..."

"Jim, stop it! You want to blow bloody London up! Are out of your bloody mind?" John wriggled off the embrace, turning to face Jim, as if this could change anything in their conversation, turn the tabs and make the bloody criminal mastermind finally talk about what was going on. "I want to know what you're going to do. As your assistant and lover I  _need_..."

"You  _need_ to know nothing, John" said Jim quietly and playfully, tracing with the tips of his fingers the outline of the doctor's jaw, tightened in anger and disappointment . "You're my perfect right hand man, so dutiful, so touchingly loyal, so meticulous, so  _nice_  to everyone that teeth can hurt. As a lover you're even better, Johnny, my petite... My pet. " as he spoke, his hands made way down John's shirt and started working on the buttons; the doctor fought the urge to slap away those fingers in distaste, hating the thought of any closure at the time, but some treacherous part of his brain welcomed the touch and yearned for  _more_. "I made you, Johnny. I found you broken and put you back together, creating the John Watson. The Monster to my Frankenstein. Galatea to my Pygmalion. I made you, and you're perfect... But I'm the master here. I  _own_  you."

Those last words were said almost angrily, as he was fumbling with John's belt and roughly pushing him down on hard, cold tiles, replacing light, teasing kisses with greedy bites and soft touches with scratching nails, fingers digging deep into the flesh. There were also handcuffs, taken out from nowhere and suddenly clasped firmly over John's wrists, fastening him to the barrier and keeping him down, and then it was all pain, heat, pleasure, mouth, fingers, nails, teeth and...

John could have said 'stop' or 'no'.

John shut his eyes instead.

* * *

Lestrade looked weary, as if those few hours made him several years older, as he stood in front of the six body bags, laid neatly in a row in the morgue.

"Tell me Sherlock, that you have something to go on. I can't let you do this further, those people... One was a teenage girl, can you believe it? Teenage girl and..."

"Yes, Lestrade, I am aware as you have just given me, completely thoughtlessly and without any use, their files. Random. Victims. Do I really have to tell you this? And yes, I have acquired this pair of trainers, which should hold the answer to our mystery. If you haven't dragged me here, I would already be in St. Bart's, working on it, but as you insisted on wasting my time..."

Lestrade stared at the pair of worn, even if well kept, shoes that hung from Sherlock's extended hand, noticing exactly nothing mysterious about them and really nothing that would need a visit to laboratory. He felt a nagging suspicion creep up on him, and it knowing Sherlock it was probably a good deduction.

"If you're kidding me so I get off you back..." he started, folding his arms defensively, trying to glare some sense in that thick skull of his consultant. Sherlock rolled his eyes, shoving the shoes to big plastic evidence bag and closing it carefully before explaining the entire situation with a kid who had drown in a pool, first case Sherlock had...

"And the cipher was just book code that revealed where to look for the next clue – so it happened that it pointed straight to your office, where I found the shoes and where you caught me, as you put it 'snooping'. That must be the solution to our problem, when I analyse the trainers we will know how he killed Carl Powers and we'll win this game." said Sherlock, already going out, his coat floating behind him as some damned cape, and Lestrade had to indulge himself in very dignified trot, because he sure as hell was not running after his consulting detective.

"Sherlock, you said 'how' but surely 'who' is also important and..."

"Please, Inspector, you are ruining my picture of the police, as I wanted to believe you all have a small, dried up and rattling in your empty skulls remains of a brain. Well, that might not be entirely fair to you... Anderson was the first one to prove me wrong, but still. It was Moriarty, Lestrade, he was a murderer from his schooldays and if the police had listened to me then, the entire situation could be avoided. I strongly believe that this is moral that just asks to de drawn from this story."

And he left with his cape... coat swirling. Lestrade felt the sudden urge to go home, away from the body bags, snipers, Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty, but as he strolled between the desks to find Sally and let her handle the case for the rest of the day, he remembered that she had a date with Moran. Lestrade hated his life.

"I'm going on that date, don't wait up." said Sebastian patting Sherlock, who sat slouched over microscope in Bart's, on the back and smiling like an idiot before he finally left after thirty minutes of sitting and humming in the most distracting and unnerving way. The quality of that humming was such dreadful that it took Sherlock's brain whole seven minutes to identify the tune as Elton John's "Funeral for a friend", one of favourite songs of his flatmate – this was probably another of Sebastian jokes.

With Sebastian leaving, the clock set in Sherlock's head started ticking the moments away; the pieces were all set and Sherlock took one of Sebastian's guns before leaving the flat, so that he could play this game properly.

He dismembered the shoes, partitioned it on the smallest possible pieces and started looking for any chemical that could be the reason of death; this must have been something easy to acquire, as the schoolboys don't have crime organisations and money for more sophisticated chemicals. But there was really nothing till he got to the shoelaces.

"Botulinium toxin" whispered to himself Sherlock, self satisfying smile raising the corners of his mouth. Perfect. He took out the photo again, and trying hard not to look at the picture, he quickly dialled the number written in the left top corner (which of course escaped Sebastian; he almost deserved being kidnapped) and waited for a thirteen seconds, before he was greeted with amused:

"Hiiii! I almost thought you wouldn't call, Sherly! Such a good game would go to waste then. So, what's the answer?"

"Botulinium toxin" said Sherlock, resisting the urge to tell Jim how genius this was. "Is that the end, Moriarty?"

"No, no, no, no! Your answer is, as usually, correct, and good, wise boys need the prize, don't they? The best prize, as they say, is a surprise, so let's meet at midnight... I hope I don't have to tell you where and what would happen if you don't claim your winnings, huh?"

Sherlock could feel his teeth grind, it was hard to tell whether in anticipation or anger at flippant, completely spoiling the  _feel_ of victory, tone of Moriarty's voice. Oh, but they both knew even without Moran Sherlock would come running; the man as a hostage was just a variable that could work on Jims advantage. There was nothing that could keep Sherlock away from Moriarty, not when he managed to be so interesting, so stimulating, not when there was a chance to see John Watson again and finally get to know something about him, deduce anything... No. There was James Moriarty as enemy and Sebastian as a hostage. John Watson could go to hell.

"See you later" said Sherlock abruptly ending the call.

* * *

Kidnapping Moran was almost too easy, thought John as they made their way to the pool, limp body of Holmes's flatmate dragged by Jerry and Gary, two big, silent specialists in delivering unwanted invites. John just stood in one of the darker alleys which Moran had to pass on his way to the restaurant he chose for the meeting (good manners could sometimes be life – saving, concluded John as he read text in which Moran and Sally Donovan were arranging their date. Honestly, 'Hey, do U want 2 go out 2nite;p '?), nice, white van from some wrecker company standing neatly on the other side of the street, and the man came all by himself, whistling some unrecognizable tune.

"Sorry" said John coming up to him, smiling sweetly. "I think I've got your phone."

"Ah, hello, Watson" said Moran, extending hand which was promptly ignored. "I rather got that... Showing up at the Yard's HQ took guts, good one."

"Are you going to make any trouble while I sedate you with this?" asked John calmly, taking out the syringe from his pocket. "Because it could go very ugly very quickly. We'd rather have you mobile and unhurt but one good shot in the kneecap will not be much of a problem."

Moran smiled, showing all his teeth in a bit too predatory grimace as for a future hostage; the streetlights were casting shadows in exactly wrong ways, creating something resembling, John thought involuntarily, the film noir setting. They needed bottles, hats and cigarettes, because, god help them, they both had all the cynicism in the world and guns behind the belts.

"Tell me, Watson, how could a guy like you step so low to wriggle ass in the air for your boss?" asked Moran, and his rough voice rung rather unpleasantly in John's ears, adding the edge to this noir setting. But he just smiled, letting the words slip past him, taking still extended hand and injecting Moran with the sedative, carefully pushing the piston, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Don't worry about Sally, I've sent her a message, from you of course, that you won't be coming." said John as he helped Sebastian to get to the van. The bigger man laughed quietly.

"You think I worry about that little bitch while being kidnapped?" he said, just before crashing into the floor of the van, losing consciousness before the body hit the ground. John huffed in annoyance. Manners were something he truly missed in his line of work.

* * *

When Moran came around, with hangover so massive and deadly it reminded him of that time in Bagdad when he and his buddies drunk for three days nonstop, he was no longer in the van but in a changing room that smelled of chlorine and disinfectants. His hands and legs were tied, effectively even if rather unimaginatively, and there was no one in the room apart from smartly dressed man who stood in the middle of the room, eyeing Sebastian intently with his head tilted to the left, as if he was deciding how would should he chop Moran to pieces and whether vivisection came into question.

This is James Moriarty, said that annoying little voice in his head, and fuck, aren't you impressed?

"Moriarty" he croaked, feeling simultaneously the need to barf, sneeze and cough, what he recognised, even with his brain on stand – by, as a rather bad move on his part. Guy in the spotless, wrinkleless suit laughed in such a high – pitched tones that Moran's head just about exploded. Or it did, Sebastian was beyond caring at this point.

"The discomfort you feel is due to the sedatives my wonderful Doctor administered. we wanted something quick and strong... mostly because you're paying the price now, not us. Because I'm bad, I'm bad..." sung quietly Moriarty. 'Discomfort', thought Moran taking several deep, calming breaths, was one way to put it.

"What do you want, Moriarty, I'm not feeling up to any of your games and..."

"I really hope you're not up" giggled Moriarty and Sebastian had to smirk at his own innuendo. "But I just wanted to give you something to think about."

"Some villainy speech, maybe? Because if it's so, then you might skip this part and I'll try to fill in with one from some Bond movie, we'll all be happier." said Sebastian out of habit rather than spite; as his head cleared, bit by bit, he felt more and more inadequate. There stood a man so influential that Moran felt the urge to scream, and so clever that he just wanted to drop to his knees in awe – there was an air of absolute, utter and _pure_ power about him. Sebastian was a man who just didn't care; Moriarty  _didn't have to care_ , and that prospect, Moran had to admit, was strangely thrilling. Moriarty whistled a few more note of 'Bad' before answering.

"How could such wonderfully immoral man end up with such a spoil – sport as Sherlock? Not that I don't like him, mind you, I think I'm his fan... because it's not a crush when you don't draw heart on margins of notebooks, right? But he's all 'cases', 'brainwork', 'puzzles', 'chase' and no really 'fun'."

"We find the chase, cases, brainwork and puzzles quite entertaining" muttered defiantly Sebastian.

"We both know it's not true for you" said Jim in the tone that would be fitting for a mother of insufferable three-year old. "It's nothing compared to fun of keeping it all dirty, bloody and messy, if you know what I mean."

Oh god, didn't he know.  _Painfully_. And only after low chuckle from consulting criminal he realised he'd spoken this aloud, or maybe Jim just knew what had he thought, because Jim understood, Jim knew how it was to look into eyes of men, women and children and see the animalistic, pure fear...

"That's where I come, Sebby. Come with me, work for me, and you will never be bored again. You'll jump over this stupid boundaries  _society_ " the last word was almost spitted in disgust "had set for those meek, mild and useless. C'mon. Leave Sherly, our bug crybaby, and get mine tonight!"

There was nothing more Sebastian wanted but to say 'yes'. Crawl to the feet of this unnatural phenomenon that was free and could free... No. If Sebastian was to go with anyone, he would do it on his own terms. Jim might understand, Jim might be wonderfully despicable, but he won't make Sebastian whither on the floor or jump fucking loops.

"You're not my type. Sorry, the answer is no. "

"Suit yourself. Or, rather, vest yourself in that fashionable semtex... It will be real blast. We're raising stakes, Sebbie. Are you, by any chance, a gambling man?"

* * *

Sherlock came in as slowly, as he could with the abundance of pent up energy and nervousness. The lights were on, casting shadows of most curious shapes that, if Sherlock possesed average knowledge of English or was any less analytical in his thinking, he would undoubtly call 'creepy'. There was no sounds other than random noises that empty building provided, with wind moving cupboard doors or slow croak of hinges, but even those managed to ring and somehow echo in his mind, creating the most unpleasant associations, bringing to light those scenarios of events he couldn't really bring himself to consider. The unpleasant smell of chlorine was horrendously ubiquitous. Honestly, they wanted to melt (poison, rather, supplied rest of his brain eagerly) those unfortunate swimmers in pure Cl? Sherlock had to admit, however reluctantly and unwillingly, that even if he was usually over idle sentiments, he started to hate this place with passion.

The reassuring weight of the gun in his pocket was the only thing that kept him walking, really. He would beat Moriarty at his own game and show everyone why exactly the should respect him, dammit, because he was not a one – person freakshow, but a genius and it wouldn't  _hurt_ , now would it, for them to acknowledge it instead of saying how abnormal he was.

Moriarty was just the same, he realised and concluded with pride that he himself was the stronger one, apparently. He made an effort to live through all that, all 'freaks' 'oddballs', 'monsters', while Moriarty just escaped into world of crime he created himself. Moriarty escaped into fantasy land where he could be the Big Bad, live like a movie hero or villain. Who said psychoanalysis was...

Oh, who was he kidding. He just wanted to BE better, even if it meant indulging himself in useless and stupid discussions over morality. 'Moral victory' and 'Holmes' in one sentence. He would have to tell it to Mycroft when (if?) this situation was solved, they would have something to laugh about. To think that he really considered that...

He pushed the door to the pool area, not hearing the single sound over his own heartbeat.

There was Sebastian with explosives (or something resembling them; too little data at this point), standing on the left side of the pool. And on the opposite side of the pool, near the sign "Deep End" (that was beyond irony, surely) stood Moriarty, with hands behind his back, staring at the ceiling and whistling irritatingly cheerful tune.

"I am here, Moriarty." he said finally, just to hear something apart from this shrilling whistle, his own (steady, too steady) heartbeat and low humming of fluorescent lights. He could look at Moran and try to reassure him, of course. Something like 'Are you alright?', would be perhaps better that stating obvious things, but Sherlock didn't think he could bring himself to look in the eye of his flatmate, knowing that the vest, explosives, kidnapping and  _everything_ was only Sherlock's fault. It wasn't guilt, of course; it couldn't be.

"Oh, I know" said Moriarty, not taking his eyes off the ceiling. "I just want you to feel the drama. Do you feel it? Do you feel the dread that comes from having your best pal strapped to a vest that is such a blast it could take down the entire building?"

"You are assuming that I can feel anything toward Sebastian."

"Oh, I'm not assuming, Sherlock, I am certain you do. You're just like me, you wouldn't waste your time on someone who you find boring and not worth attention. And we both know Moran is worth at least a bit of attention, don't we?" Moriarty finally,  _finally,_  looked at Sherlock, his face twisting in a horrible imitation of a smile. "Tell me, was it fun to sent him away on that date to get him kidnapped?"

"You knew?" whispered Sebastian, an Sherlock didn't have to tear his eyes from Moriarty to know that Moran's face could be used right now as a study in anger; all wrinkles and scars crying for blood, mouth curled into snarl, eyes squinted... Sherlock should look into that eyes; he deserved that. Or, no, not really. It was the only course of action, only logical choice and he would do it again. And again. And...

"No, I presumed it was a possibility, but I did not know. What do you really want, Moriarty? Talk? Blow us all up?"

"Don't fuck with me, Sherlock! You fucking knew I was going to get kidnapped? And you said nothing? Nothing? You're really such a sick bastard that you just..."

"Shut up, Sebastian. Just... shut up." hissed Sherlock taking several big strides and coming as close to Moran as he dared. "I want here to save your life so save your tantrums for another day. You're so... "

"I'M SO FUCKING WHAT, YOU DAMNED FREAK?" roared Sebastian, and then there was drumming in Sherlock's head, dizziness almost overwhelming him as the smell of chloride, sweat and water became too much, he was better than Moriarty and he will win and he will show everyone and...

Moriarty was standing between him and Sebastian, somehow, and Sherlock realised he didn't recall last several seconds.

"See? You're so attached to your little pet." laughed Moriarty, almost affectionately and friendly. "You even care what he thinks of you, how  _sweet_."

"As sweet as your  _boyfriend?_  Or should I say – your  _toy?_ " asked Sherlock, taking out his gun in one smooth motion, tired of the entire conversation. He had to win this... and then he would sleep for days. ( _Forever,_ muttered this little treacherous voice in his head). Moriarty giggled and gave a small wave. A signal, that Sherlock knew even without two red dots appearing suddenly on Sebastian's chest.

"If I were you, Sherly, I would be nice to Johnny. He's up there, with his riffle, and even if he's such a good boy, he's somewhat... What's the expression? Ah, trigger – happy. Fingers slip in the worst moments, you see. But we're not here to fuel your crush on my boyfriend, you know? We're here to let you make a decision."

In Sherlock's mind two questions battled for priority, both unwanted and downright irritating: "What do you mean 'crush'?" and "He's really here?"; unable to decide which should go first, Sherlock settled on compromise in form of eye roll and exasperated "What decision would that be?"

"You can stand here and get yourself killed when Johnny finally gets bored with our talks... Or you can dispose of your pet here and come with me. You'll never be bored again, Sherlock."

And the dizziness was back. Sherlock's head was spinning with possibilities, thousands of scenarios that turned into bizarre mashup somewhere on the way, with shouts, victories, experiments he always wanted to conduct but it was 'not okay', blood, sea of angry, scared, disgusted faces, pain, smell of powder and... what was really left, was just the need to win this game, to beat Moriarty even if that meant killing himself, because nothing, nothing was more important than this.

But there was also one, small, treacherous thought. He would finally meet John Watson. But he wouldn't sacrifice... would he?

And before he could really answer, it all want to hell.

* * *

Sebastian had enough of being treated like an idiot, being called a pet and he had fucking enough of being the butt of the joke here. He had been a damn good soldier once and if those two idiotic geniuses (honestly, the way Sherlock held this gun...) though that vest of explosives and some laser pointers would be enough to scare the shit out of him, they were tragically wrong. It seemed that Moriarty, even though he looked like a bright and perfect guy back there, was a hopeless romantic and this whole situation was a bit too much Shakespeare – like to be truly menacing. Or Bond – like. Shit, there was a reason why Sebastian wanted Sherlock to see at least one of those movies, he wouldn't indulge in those crazy rambling but shoot the fucker and be done with it. And Watson could curl up and cry his brain out over his nasty little boyfriend, for all they cared.

He waited for the right moment, of course. There was long silence, as Sherlock stood still pointing the gun at Moriarty's chest, mulling over the answer to this stupid question, and Moran saw the attention of Moriarty concentrate solely on the consulting detective...

It took exactly three seconds to grab Moriarty from behind, making him a (rather useless, but whatever) human shield.

"I'll fucking break his neck if you, Watson, and the rest of those clowns don't come down here, with your hands nicely in the air... I fucking mean it, you cunts. And if you try to shoot me... Well, we're going to be nice set of fireworks, won't we?" he shouted, feeling Moriarty trying to wriggle his way... No, he was laughing. Laughing?

"Sebbie, we both know you won't do it" said Moriarty, and Sebastian, a little at loss as to what to do (no one ever  _laughed,_ how could he laugh?), looked up to Sherlock, finally, finally seeing him,  _real_ Sherlock fucking Holmes.

It was a disgrace. The man was supposed to be tall, proud, beautiful, always in command, always fucking brilliant and always collected, the perfect man with perfect mind. Man who held the fucking power, not this snivelling mass of... Maybe not exactly snivelling. And he stood as still and seemingly as collected as ever, okay. But there was this shift, eyes opened wide, shallow breath, the  _panic_  that was just beneath the surface, and Sebastian realised he had seen it many, many times before.

No.

Sherlock Holmes was not what Sebastian wanted. Not someone he would risk getting being blown up for. This was all a huge, fucking mistake, he realised, a glitch in fucking space that he met this wimp and run after him time and time again. It was so wrong, all those times when Sebastian laughed, knowing they were just  _millimetres_ from the top, and Sherlock pulled him back, down on this stupid, useless and full of weakness ground. They could be gods among men; but they managed only to play the role of nerdy hipsters or ... something. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and he felt the sudden urge to sit down and cry over the unfairness of this fucking Universe.

Jim was laughing harder now, and it...

It was right.

Sebastian let Moriarty go, unwillingly unclenching fingers from the soft fabric of the suit; the dots appeared on Sherlock's forehead and it was the best reason, and the furthest from truth at the same time, to let Jim go. He was letting Jim live, because who cared for Sherlock Holmes anyway?

There were sirens to be heard, somewhere, and suddenly Sherlock lunged for Jim, tackling him to the ground.

* * *

John felt really proud of himself that he managed to write a intelligible text with one hand, while the other kept aiming for Moran's chest. He just hoped Donovan didn't switch her phone off, thought it was a prank, or just plain sulked and decided that calling police to help her stupid boyfriend would be too good for the bastard. John was not a man who agreed with technology, after all (to be precise, there was ongoing war between them) but this time even that blasted phone understood the importance and significance of those few little words and it all went smoothly.

He wanted to hate himself for what he was doing. Sabotaging Jim's plans was, after all, not something he usually did but this time there was a factor called Sherlock Holmes and it was the best reason to end this in peaceful, quiet way. John could give about twenty logical reasons, probably even in alphabetical order, why killing Sherlock Holmes would be really bad for both Jim and his business. Of course, he would never admit that it was the fact that the consulting detective looked somewhat  _lost_ , that did it. On one side there was Jim: unfazed, standing tall, master of the game and cold, demonical, fucking bastard that almost didn't deserve to be loved (almost? asked deepest part of John's brain). Power clothed in Westwood. And there was Holmes: cold, analytical, and so ... human, John wanted to weep. (John was human too, sometime in the past. Now he was just Jim's pet, Jim's little toy soldier and it should hurt more than it really did).

As Moran threw himself at Jim, the first thought was not, by accident, whether his boyfriend was safe; no, the first thing that came to his mind was a silent plea for Sherlock Holmes to run, to leave this all behind because he could get out from this mess and if he stayed...

"Finch, aim for Moran, I'll take over Holmes" he said to the mouthpiece, adjusting the angle. Bugger it to hell, thought he in despair as he realised he did that only to keep Sherlock from being accidentally shot, I love that man.

It must have been God's joke, broken cog in the mechanism of space, that they didn't meet before and probably won't meet ever again. John  _knew_  Sherlock Holmes, felt this unmistakable connection and could (would?) go crazy from the sheer power of the tension that he felt almost physically every time he heard that name, because, dammit, this name was too good for Jim to say.

John wanted to grab Sherlock (yes, it was the right name, only name that he ever wanted to whisper in the night) and keep him, watch every move and hear every thought and it would be enough, more than enough for the lifetime. Wanted to compare every gesture with the ones he pictured, that were somehow stored in his brain... It was only right. He belonged with Sherlock Holmes. It was so clear and easy that he wanted to sing, laugh, throw his riffle away and stroll down the stairs...

No. No no no no.. He was Jim's... something. Boyfriend. Pet. Toy. Monster. There was no such thing as soulmates. And even if there were, he lost Sherlock Holmes the moment he took the sniper's riffle and smiled in anticipation. There was no way to go back now, except...

When the police could be heard in the distance and Sherlock Holmes lunged for Jim (did he forget that he had a gun? Those  _geniuses_ ), John was calm and aimed with studied ease. There was only one way to finish this.

As Jim threw rather laughable punch that threw the consulting detective away from him, John Watson shot Sherlock Holmes straight in the chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next (and the last) part should be done next week... If I manage. Please leave a comment, I really appriciate your insight.
> 
> I am also, as it was kindly pointed out and I'm really thankful for that, in desperate need of a Beta. If any of You would be interested, please contact me. Please, please, please? Cherry on top?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N I am SORRY. I cannot express how sorry I am for the delay. But I had exams, then i was in Spain, then I had the biggest writing block EVER. I really hope you can forgive me, or at least not kill in very, very painful way... yeah. And the funny thing is, I was planning that this story will have 20-30 A4 pages Times New Roman size 12. And it took me 51. :D
> 
> BUT, this part is in fact BETA'ED, by wonderful, wonderful, and wonderful... I'd forget about wonderful, so, wonderful Avelera, who took it upon herself to look the last part through and correct my horrible English. :D
> 
> Moreover, you can go and read the fic in Chinese - it is getting translated by Satie (HOORAY!), and can be found [ HERE ](http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=24779&extra=page%3D1)
> 
> (Okay. On with the story now. The rest of my insane rambling later. )

The first thing that Sherlock was truly aware of was intense pain emanating from the outside, inside, head, chest, teeth, light, and it was cold everywhere... the fire was burning Sherlock's skin, the heat was freezing his breath in hurting lungs and everything was jumbled and...

There were lights, he suddenly thought, a lot of lights and shouts and voices. Before. He was being moved then (moving? everything was so heavy, and head was so light it must be in the air, maybe he was caught between some atmosphere layers, yes, thermosphere or stratosphere or asthenosphere or...) and the smell of disinfectant was suffocating him as well as the sounds all around but at least it was not this heavy smell of chlorine and...

Oh. The pool. He was shot at the pool, and now he must be in a hospital, that was only logical. God, Mycroft was going to _kill_ him, he will take him and shut him in that wretched house as he did before and there will be no cases, no chase nothing nothing nothing nothing but the pain and the pain and...

Next time he regained consciousness there was only a minor tingling, a ghost of pain he felt before, and he almost smiled in relief. So he was not completely cut off from the painkillers, as he first suspected, good. There was nothing worse than this mind-blocking, brain-stopping (were those even words? well, they were _now_ ) pain.

"I see you're finally awake. Good"

Correction. There was nothing worse than this mind–blocking, brain–stopping pain except His Not Majesty, Just A Minor Government Official Mycroft Holmes, who, as Sherlock could see after lifting slightly his left eyelid, sat in the comfortable armchair beside his bed, holding his beloved umbrella with both hands, as if it was the sign of his power and authority. No, not holding; from the whiteness of the knuckles Sherlock could say that 'clutching' was much more appropriate term. Fascinating.

"Mycroft. Have you actually run out of nations to enslave?" being shot was not a reason to be civil or, god forbid, _nice_ , to his brother. Mycroft was Not Amused.

"I believe this is the moment I should ask you what you were thinking. But I do not deem it necessary, as I am well aware that you, dear brother, _thought absolutely nothing_. Oh, I am sure there were dozens of little notions running around your brain in most peculiar manner that could be mistaken for the 'thoughts' by someone mentally deficient." said he almost flippantly, but the thin line of his lips and the deadly grip on the umbrella were telling Sherlock another story altogether; he was reminded of the night when... No. It was all behind him, and Moriarty was nothing like drugs. "You could at least open your eyes, Sherlock, when I'm trying to berate you in the manner that won't involve physical harm in a form of slamming your head, and mine as well, repeatedly into the wall."

"I hate you," said Sherlock reflexively, looking Mycroft straight in the eye. He was trying to tune out the remains of the pain from his brain, as he could feel he'd be needing his entire brain capacity to put the facts together and filter out Mycroft's ramblings when he finally starts to talk with sense. "And please skip the 'speech' part, will you? Anything you could possibly say has already crossed, and the word 'crossed' is quite deliberate on my part, so just tell me what happened, and let's be done with your visit."

Speaking this much was clearly a mistake, as the pain worsened considerably, leaking back into his thoughts and muddling his brain, and it was all his brother's fault, of course. Sherlock was also quite sure that if he could concentrate for more than five minutes, he could also figure out how the whole 'being shot' part was the fault of Mycroft's fat.

"You were shot." started Mycroft wearily after a short pause, and Sherlock considered wasting some of his energy on being _sooo surprised, because who would have thought! No shit, Mycroft!_ but resigned after a particularly inconvient stab of pain. "After that Moriarty and his men left, blowing up the pool on their way out. You are lucky that your favourite Detective Inspector was bright enough to drive ahead of the official police force, as he arrived early enough to get you out before the building collapsed. I believe you should thank him next time you meet."

Sherlock had to squash down the urge to ignore Lestrade completely from now on. Not acknowledging the man who saved your life just to spite your brother was a _tiny bit_ too childish even for him. There was something missing, though, and Sherlock wanted to remove his own brain through the nose and shake it a bit, or delicately throw it at the wall, because maybe then it would start working properly. He settled on shaking his head instead. Oh. Mistake. Very, very, very bad mistake. On the brighter side, he thought, there must be a way to vomit all over Mycroft without getting up if it comes to it.

"I believe you wanted to ask about your _friend_ ," continued Not The British Government, putting as much disgust as he could muster into the last word. Mycroft did not approve of Sebastian, because he agreed to spy on Sherlock for money, not even having decency enough to look embarrassed. As Sherlock argued, one day, that it was only logical and practical to do so, Mycroft just waved the umbrella, and said that there is practically nothing logical about friendship. " _He_ came out without a scratch, leaving the pool on his own _before_ Detective Inspector Lestrade arrived on the scene. And unless on a date with Sergeant Donovan he has asked about your health, he is likely totally oblivious to the state you are in – by his own choice, I assure you."

Good. There will be no awkward talks about what happened at the pool, and moreover Sherlock didn't want to be seen in such a state. Crippled. Sick. Slow. Sebastian would be disgusted, and for a good reason. And, oh God, Sherlock didn't beat Moriarty. He let him win, he was too slow, too stupid to win and maybe he was just a freak. Just a strange freak, with tricks upon his sleeves and no real brain, maybe it was all the show and the truth was... Sherlock would ask Mycroft, because if he wouldn't know then who would, but his lungs were somehow gripped in invisible vice and it was impossible to breathe. Stupid wound, stupid, stupid, stupid... It must be the reason his throat hurt and eyes watered. Yes. Pain. Idiotic, pedestrian pain. Mycroft stood up, and bent over Sherlock. For someone who didn't know him it might have looked as if he was considering a hug, but Sherlock knew his brother well enough.

"I'll call the doctor, Sherlock, the pain medication must have worn off. Get well soon, I'll try not to visit too frequently. Oh, and speaking of doctors – there is a file on John Watson on the table to your left, in case harassing nurses boreyou. He was one of the snipers, and from the data gathered he was the one who informed the police about your situation. There is also 95% of chances that he was the one who shoot you. "

Sherlock was right. It was possible to vomit on his brother's suit without moving from the bed.

\-------------

The restaurant was nice, even though it practically dripped with tacky, kitschy decorations. The owners probably tried to imitate baroque style but managed to make the restaurant look as if someone painted some rubbish found in the nearest bin started randomly gluing it to every surface possible. Sebastian was almost sure there was a golden boot hanging from the chandelier and a banana split on the wall behind him. However tacky, the restaurant looked really expensive, and he could withstand worse things for a good shag. And Sally was more than good - aggressive, violent, strong, sure of herself and with inclinations to dominance . Oh, thinking of those lean, strong body writhing under him, of making this woman beg in sexual haze... No, it was most certainly worth having his eyeballs burned out with all this tackiness.

Sally came in late, as always, and he toyed with the idea of taking their game a little further tonight and punishing her for this, the blood must look the most wonderful on her dark skin... But there was something wrong, he thought, as she sat down hastily, without looking at him; her hand shook a little and she was breathing unevenly, as if she was scared or nervous, and knowing her he could tell that there were not many things that could do either. And the decor was not THAT bad, after all.

"Hi, sweetheart" he said after a few minutes, curiously looking as she fumbled with the menu.

"Don't you fucking 'sweetheart' me, you bastard," she hissed and Sebastian could have slapped himself for being sexist idiot. It was pure rage, not nervousness - really, he should have remembered she was not one of those cute, little, girly things that wrapped themselves in pink and went overly excited about some colourful weeds. He mentally ran through last few days, thinking what had he done that could have provoked such a reaction. He didn't get far (hell, the list was not easy to do; he prided himself on being _very bad boy_ ) before she managed to spell it out to him. "Don't you fucking sit there and look as if nothing happened, you coward. You just _went home_ , you son of a bitch, and the Freak was almost dying, bleeding all over the place."

Now, that was both unexpected and quite disturbing, because it wouldn't even make it on the list and it had over ten positions so far.

"Wait. Are you shouting on me about Sherlock? Because, firstly, I won't point finger who tries to ridicule him on every occasion and calls him 'freak' on regular basis, and secondly, I believe our club has three rules: no Sherlock Holmes, no anal sex, no Sherlock Holmes. And..."

"And nothing. We're not talking about Holmes, we're talking about you! It was not shock, you weren't hurt, you weren't even fazed! You just stood there, when Inspector and that kid run into building, and had the guts to _invite me on a date, just after the fucking pool exploded with them all inside._ " She was no longer prattling angrily, her speech became a low, hateful hiss which, along with her squinted with rage eyes and lean face made her similar to a pissed – off cat. What was, in Moran's book at least, fucking hot.

"And you agreed. Honestly, Sally, I don't see the problem. People always shag after funerals, the circle of life and this kind of shit. Haven't you watched this movie with Harrison Ford, where..."

"You just don't care, do you? All this time, there was I, silly little girl, thinking you were mysterious anti-hero: brave, daring and gallant, but in reality it's all stupidity and... Fuck it. Do you care about anyone at all? If it had been me, lying there bleeding, would you have just lit a fag and walked out of there?" Sally looked at him expectantly, but he was too stunned with her assumption that she could be more important than Sherlock, hell, that she mattered at all. No, it was not really true. He liked her, that fierce little bitch, and she was the first person that presented a challenge, that bit him back. But the silence lingered a minute too long, and she stood up abruptly, getting her answer from his blank stare.

"It's over, Sebastian. Our relationship was a mistake and..."

"Relationship? Mistake? C'mon, sweetheart, don't play prude little virgin, you just wanted a good rough fuck – you still want it. Like a slutty bitch in heat you are. If not me, then who? Anderson?"

"Richard is ten times the man you are!" she shouted now, her pretty face red and, oh, so _fierce_ ; she looked positively beautiful, and he wanted her to slap him, so that he would have the reason to catch her wrists and kiss her brains out. And then – fuck it out _again_.

" _That_ really hurt." he smirked, also standing up. She looked lost, for a moment, as if this joke broke something important deep in her psyche. Weak, she was.

"I don't want to see you again, never. And if I see you on my crime scene, I'll shoot you." She was whispering, and, oh God, there were tears in her eyes. Disgusting. "I'll fucking kill you, and seeing how highly valued you are by Lestrade right now, he won't raise any objections. So stay the fuck away, you psycho."

As she left, hastily and swaying slightly on high heels she insisted on wearing. He sat down, ignoring the stares and whispers. Goody – good hypocrites, all of them. Lestrade more than anyone, always nagging about showing respect to the dead, reminding Sherlock of those little, petty emotions they insisted on showing.

Oh. So that was the problem. Sherlock could be perfect, brilliant creature, if only... Moran stood up as abruptly as he had seated himself three minutes ago. He had to go to the hospital, but before – he would step into the flat, yes. He would finally make Sherlock the man he should be.

\-------------

Sherlock was reading the files brought by Mycroft for a fourth time this morning, not that he really needed to; he had it more or less memorised, but there was something lurking in the corners, something he needed to read out of this file, something he needed to know (why, why, why, oh, but why _what_?) and couldn't find no matter how hard he looked. He might get better results, of course, if it weren't for Lestrade's visit (wasting time, all this talking and thanking) and bloody nurses coming to get blood samples every few hours, checking that he didn't die of blood loss several times in-between (vamipres, all of them, sadistic little creatures). There was a sound of the door opening, and the person (male; doctor by the squeaking of the shoes, slight limp, sure of himself) came up to his bed; Sherlock couldn't be bothered to raise his eyes from the text, really, there was nothing interesting this man (Doctor Collins, 90% of chance) could tell him.

"I'd prefer, doctor, that you'd leave me to suffer in peace, as it would be in your best interest. If I look at you, there is 100% chance that I could call your wife shortly after and tell her several very good reasons she should get a divorce." he said, and it wasn't really an empty threat.

"That would be something I'd really like to see"

It was John Watson's voice. Sherlock looked up, just to see John Watson's face, real, three dimensional (slightly flushed, older than in the photos). The logical conclusion would be, then, that there was John Watson in his hospital room but somehow it took almost all of Sherlock's brain capacity to work out the fact.

John Watson. The man that saved his (and Sebastian's) live by calling the police. The man who almost killed him. Sherlock realised he really should shout to (and _at_ , how the hell did one of most dangerous criminals made his way past them?) Mycroft's men guarding the door, because there was a perfect occasion to catch Moriarty's right hand man. It would be a reasonable course of action, thought Sherlock while drinking in every wrinkle in Watson's face, every centimetre of man's face searching for... goddammit, why couldn't he grasp it?

"Why?" he asked, finally meeting the man's eyes, wanting to hear something, anything from him, just to listen, because there was this thing about John Watson that made his brain stop (it couldn't be fear, could it? what, then? ) and it was both terrifying and... wonderful. He just had to figure it all out, before those idiots outside took them apart and destroyed the only chance to find the answer.

"Why did I come here?" clarified John... Watson, not John, the man was a criminal after all, despite some disturbing little thoughts that crept into Sherlock's brain. "Or why did I shoot you?"

"Both, actually." Answer on the question _Why aren't you trying to kill me now?_ would be also appreciated, he wanted to add, but somehow... It seemed wrong. So very wrong, now that John Watson broke the eye contact and smiled sadly at the ceiling.

"I wanted to check on you. Chest wounds can be tricky, and although I was quite sure I didn't hit the heart and man arteries, the lungs ARE quite important for the entire 'breathing' thing so I had to make sure there was no... danger to your life. "

 _Breathing's boring_ , giggled something deep in Sherlock's brain as he regarded Joh... Watson, who was still finding ceiling the most fascinating thing in the room. The Detective almost felt insulted. Choosing the ceiling over him, now that was first. Intriguing, though – an assassin who doesn't want to kill, who comes to heavily guarded hospital just to check if his target was alright after placing the bullet himself. Crazy. Insane. Dangerous. Illogical.

"You're not here to finish your job?" stated Sherlock, because it made sense – with every passing minute more sense, as he looked at the small, bulky man who was flipping through the chart _again_. Dammit, why couldn't he just look at him? "But you shot me in the chest before."

"In the _chest_ , yes."

Did the man take the course on this? 'Strange talks 101 – how to say nothing comprehensible in the conversation your life depends on'? What the hell was it with shooting in the chest... what was he was missing, a code, maybe? Cultural reference – unlikely. Their eyes met, finally, and it became harder and harder to breathe, because it _clicked_ , something deep inside shifted, _again_ , and it wasn't Watson, it was John, John, John, _his John_. Fuck. Keep calm, Holmes, and carry the fuck on. Honestly, someone might have thought that you...

"I should call the guards" he said finally, as he couldn't decide between _Please, run before they catch you here_ and _I want to take your brain to pieces to see what the hell makes you tick_. John gave him a small smile, as if it was a joke so bad, that almost cute. (But wasn't it? The entire situation was just one big joke from the start, and... why couldn't he think? Damned painkillers)

"You really should. But you won't." he said confidently, and wasn't it a kick in Sherlock's teeth that it was fucking true? The chest was getting tighter with each second, and the detective had to remind himself to breathe, because it would be a bit too ironical that he would suffocate himself when there was a professional killer in the room. Ironical? Hah, pathetic. "Besides, I'm... I'm going. You'll be okay, that doctor of yours knows what he's doing and if you don't try to get up from the bed for a week, you'll be alright."

And he was leaving, just like that, as if he was really doctor and this wasn't the (most important... where did it come from?) most insane talk in Sherlock's life. Honestly, this was it? The man waltzes in and doesn't even...

"Stay," he said before he could catch himself, his brain somewhere miles and miles away from his treacherous mouth; there was also a strange mutiny of his hand, which moved up, a bit, as if to catch John, _never let him go_ , but he managed to crash that revolt in time. Pathetic, for God's sake. He should... But there were more words, rushing out of his stupid, idiotic, _perfidious_ mouth, and he could not stop, not when John stopped in the middle of the room, because... "You could stay and we've got an unused flat in 221, just downstairs, or you could take my room because I sleep on the sofa all the time, I play violin at night and sometimes I don't talk for days but you could live with me and become a surgeon again and..."

... because he was pathetic like that. Oh god, what a gibberish. What sentimental, stupid thing to say. He really was as weak as Moriarty and Sebastian thought he was. Disgusting. No, _extremely_ disgu...

Oh.

 _Oh._

There were other mouth on his. John's mouth. John was kissing him. THAT... was unexpected. And quite welcomed. No. No it wasn't, it was not...

But then, before Sherlock could try to fight him off, it was over, John was at the door, and the detective was left with the feeling that his ribcage would explode from all the pain.

"He will kill you." he managed, through clenched throat, as John reached for the doorknob.

"Yeah, I think so too" said the doctor, leaving without as much as a 'goodbye' or 'sorry for molesting you in the hospital' or 'thank you for your kind offer'. There was silence, again, and Sherlock, after exactly thirteen minutes of consideration, took a cup and threw it with all his strength at the poor, innocent wall. It deserved it, he thought as the cup scattered in several dozens of pieces and the wet stain from tea made its way down the paint. Stupid painkillers, they made him slow, it was all their fault, that...

Speaking of 'slow' – Mycroft's men bolted in with Lestrade in tow, all ready to fight the ninjas.

"Just a cup" he said, staring at the ceiling; now he could relate to the interest John demonstrated before. "If you wanted to catch John Watson, though, you're late by... fourteen minutes, now. Congratulations."

\-------------

He must be a suicidal masochist. An _insane_ suicidal masochist. That was the only logical explanation of John's actions, or at least the only one that he could think of that didn't include mind – controlling rays and hypnosis. What the hell had tempted him to visit Holmes? Or shoot him in the first place? And calling the police... Jesus. He almost wished that Sherlock ( _Holmes_ , let's keep it professional... oh, hell, who was he kidding, SHERLOCK, now more than ever) had called for the guards, because then John could at least know where he was standing, because his brain was one great jumble of wishes, desires and useless rational thoughts.

It was rational to call the police; as much as Jim liked to think of himself as untouchable, killing Sherlock Holmes could be a beginning of his downfall. There were stories of what happened to those who dared to harm the man, and it was not something John wanted to think about right now.

"His brother is a big shot in politics," explained Jim once during his 'OMG, I'm totally smitten and I want to have his babies' phase of the hunt. "And when I say _politics_ , I mean playing Risk with real armies while drinking panda's blood or piss, or something equally über-posh. You just can expect such a guy to get a bit violent about his brother's misfortunes and burn the offending people down, piss on their ashes, get his minions to gather it, use it to build concrete wall, and then take it apart with a nuclear blast."

"Ha, bloody, ha. Don't sprain your imagination while thinking this up," muttered then John, sipping his tea and just trying to _read_. Jim just smiled wider.

"The pissing part was my input, I admit... Oh, can you imagine dating Sherly – boy? Or can you imagine what he Big Bad Brother will try to do to _us_ , sweetheart? Beautiful. Oh, it's fucking Christmas!"

Beautiful. This could be the reasonable explanation for his tip to the police (which he would gladly supply if Jim wanted to listen, ha, if he met Jim during those two days after the explosion)... and his actions had nothing to do with saving Sherlock bloody Holmes. No, nothing, really. Besides, John was forced to hurt the man either way, because some exceptionally moronic cops thought that announcing their desire to visit with sirens, flashing lights and all this crap was an exceedingly good idea. If it weren't for his shot, one of the other snipers would take over, probably Martin who always had trouble with accepting John as his boss, and they would not aim for the chest. No, headshots are so much safer when it comes to effectiveness.

That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? The reason why John suddenly stopped sulking in the flat (stripped bare from Sherlock Holmes's pictures, he made sure of that) and went to the hospital just to see the man, to finally see for himself if consulting detective's condition was really as stable as shown the reports (his doctory part of the brain supplied him with thousands of possible complications; but really, his shot could have just missed the _relatively_ safe spot...and _game over_ ). He shot Holmes to prevent him from being killed, not because he wanted to save Jim.

Dammit all to hell.

John knew this from the start. Or rather: should have known, if he had just stopped for a moment and really thought about the entire situation. But no, he had to understand this the moment when he had really no place to go; Jim repulsed him, the lone idea of meeting him, talking to him now was physically making him sick – besides the man won't take it all easy, there will be a hell to pay for this little hospital visit – and shooting Sherlock just about hammered steel reinforcements to the (already tightly shut) doors to the light side of the force. Interesting. He should feel despair, not this burning anger.

"Okay" said John aloud, starling a nice little old lady he was passing by. "Time to do the right thing, because for fuck's sake..."

He was a soldier, a doctor, and quite a nice man. He had saved Molly, saved Sherlock, and now he would just have to save London, because Jim's pyromaniac tendencies were fucking annoying and John _liked_ London. _Time to stop being the coward, John,_ he thought, the plans, scraps of information forming in his brain. _Jim does not POSSES YOU._

Men guarding the door to the apartment were as indifferent as always, only nodding slightly as John passed them by. He would get in, grab the papers from the pod drawer in the desk, drop them to the Scotland Yard, and then... well, first things first. Jim was at the conference in China, _again_ , so there was no...

"Hello, Johnny. How's our best friend Sherlock?"

Fuck. 'No danger of running into Jim', indeed. And this was really the best moment for John's mind to turn completely blank, wasn't it?

"Hello Jim. And he's fine, wouldn't want your archenemy to die in hospital from the nasty infection or the lack in his doctor's skills..." he said flippantly, because what else left him to do? Besides, it was somehow funny, Jim sulking on the armchair, his arms folded, he just required the lamp he could turn on when John tried to sneak in the flat, and it would be just like in the cartoon or American sitcom.

"No, I'd rather he died from the abundance of MY doctor's skills. When you went there I thought you'd try to finish the job you botched, Johnny, botched so hard it hurts, and I wanted to wait here for you so we could celebrate the premature demise of Sherlock bloody Holmes with some fireworks and explosions. But nooo... You had to go and waste all this champaign I brought." Jim still was sitting and sulking, looking like a child who had been denied a cookie or a visit to the cinema. God, how John hated the man. He stared moving towards the bedroom, thinking how fast he could pack his things and whether Jim will try to stop him, or throw him out, or kill on the spot. Honestly? John didn't care.

Then suddenly there were hands stopping him from behind, turning him forcibly around before he could really process what was happening, and shoving him at the wall. John stumbled back, and in the second (fuck, he forgot how fast the man could be) he was pinned to the wall by angry, no, _furious_ Jim, who was panting in barely contained murderous rage.

"You're mine, mine, mine, MINE, Johnny" he whispered, and suddenly kissed John deeply, hungrily, his tongue exploring the vicinity of his tonsils, sucking on his lower lip, and Jim's hands were suddenly everywhere... God, so many times before it all started just like this and... The sharp pain coursed through John's lips, and coppery taste filling his mouth, as Jim bit down, drawing blood. "My pet, my sweetest, loveliest, little pet." he whispered then, and if before John wanted to walk away from this mess, leave everything behind, go to Nepal and become a monk or to Peru and pretend to be a llama, those words, the bite, hell, the feel of Jim's mouth on his, the coppery taste of blood... something deep inside his brain just snapped. He wanted to destroy Jim. Hurt him. Make him feel the despair, longing, hurt and shame John felt, and fucking drown him in it. Pet? No, no, no, _no_. Never. _Never_ again. With one swift move (Jim always underestimated him, it could be so easy) he pulled his arms from Jim's hold and punched him squarely in the jaw. Jim staggered back, hissing like a pissed – out cat. John drew a gun from his holster, and pointed it at ... ex-lover? ex-employer? Who cares.

"No Jim, I'm not yours. I never was. I am not your toy. I'm not your little soldier. And I am certainly not your pet." said John, panting slightly and tracing with a finger the bite on the lip. "And move back now, or so help me, I'll fucking shoot you. "

Jim wanted to smile, but obviously the pain stopped him from expressing anything more than a light sneer. Good. John never wanted to see this fucking smile again.

"If you were as good as you think you are, Johnny, you would notice Freddie and George on our left, now. And believe me, those are not plastic wands that they have aimed on us... God, that was quite an innuendo. But if you pull that trigger, you're dead. Dead as a door - nail... See what you're doing to me? I'm quoting Dickens."

"And what makes you think I care?" John didn't fear death. And certainly he didn't fear those two red-headed idiots with guns, who thought they were educated because they read the entire 'Harry Potter' series. What he really feared was that sneer on Jim's face.

"Because London will be blown up either way, darling. Who cares if I die, when all the orders are already given? Besides, I'm planning on a bit of surprise for Sherly – boy, and you really don't want to let me do that, do you? And I don't want to kill you now. No, you see, I want to break you into cute, little, kitten – shaped fucking pieces, and watch you die, bit by bit, piece by fucking kitten – shaped piece, to the Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture or "Love Kills" by Freddie M. And then, when you'll beg me on your knees for fucking forgiveness, then I'll show you how merciful I am, and I'll kill you myself. That will take time. You could always have time to try to escape and stop me. So, shoot now, and you will never have the hope to save your ... _belooooved_."

John hesitated only for the moment. Shooting didn't solve this the first time, did it? Now, instead running around and solving Jim's riddles, Sherlock was in hospital, high on painkillers. Besides... Yes, there was always a chance. He handed the gun, slowly, as if it was tooth that he pulled out himself, to Freddie.

"Good boy. Now, we'll lock you up in the bedroom... Oh, the _memories_! I hope we'll make a dozen more there. Goodbye, Johnny... And God, what a dumb blonde you are. I'm just going to watch the whole city burn, like Nero did with the Rome, and you just chose to sit here and wait for me. Hah, maybe instead of the car, I'll take the Vespa, hm? Ciao!" Jim waved goodbye, as Freddie and George pulled him to the bedroom, hurling him inside and shutting the door. It was a good moment to shout something, right?

"I hate you!" he yelled, trying to come up with a good comeback or a witty remark. "And... And... And you fuck like a GIRL!"

And it was suddenly so hilarious that he started laughing, and laughing, and somehow there his face was wet, his breath hitched in exactly wrong way, shapes started blurring and something in him trembled and... God, he was crying. Pathetic. Stupid, pathetic, idiotic... and even couldn't think of a good comeback. Honestly, the only one worse could be 'you fuck like your mother' and it was his second choice. He really needed to be eradicated from the gene pool for those puns.

He took a deep breath. And another. Looked around the room. Their bedroom, usually full of, well, everything, as Jim had an attention span of a toddler, was stripped bare, leaving only the bed, small table and one plastic cup with water. Hooray. He made his way to the windows – they opened just fine, but that didn't make the day brighter as jumping from the third floor on a concrete driveway and becoming a nice puddle of flesh was hardly a desired course of the escape.

There was a knock on his door, and George slid in the room, looking both sides as if waiting for some fucking train to run him over. John had to stifle laugh, it really didn't end well last time.

"Mr Watson?"

"What, came to see if I didn't build a flamethrower from this deadly plastic cup of mass destruction?" he asked dryly, and the man looked even more nervous than before.

"We just wanted, me, Freddie, and, well, the rest of the guys here, that we always liked you, sir, you treated us like humans, and well, we can't let you go because Mr Moriarty'll fucking kill us..."

"Yeah, I know, George, I'd never even ask for your help," John had to smile at the distraught man, because rarely you hear from natural born killers that they liked you. It was... nice. If a bit disturbing. "I know you've got your own problems."

"But sir... there is. Ah. Not sure I..." George, the man who had, according to rumours, once tortured a teenage drug addict to death... stuttering? blushing? God, this had to be a hallucination. "Mr Watson, lemmie get to the point. There is a gun in the bathroom, one of the guys _accidentally_ left it... and it wouldn't be really my fault, right, if during one of the bathroom breaks you found it, right?"

"George. I..." where were all the words when John needed them? Well, one thing was sure – he would never be a writer. George just waved his hand, pointedly looking the other way.

"Just get out of here, sir. That's... the least we could do."

"By the way, do you have a phone?"

"Get ready for your bathroom break, sir, and I'll fetch it. You can never know when you'll need a cell in the fucking loo. But my bloody car keys stay, even if you fucking shoot. White Dodge Challenger is worth dying for... "

\----------------------

Who would have known, thought Lestrade tiredly, that visits in the restroom could be so dangerous. Either the microbes will kill you slowly and painfully, or, if you stay to thoroughly wash them off, a strange guy with a gun will avenge those little buggers. He was just washing his hands, head bent down, when he heard footsteps (nothing strange, even though the Yard was not a really busy place at 10 pm), which stopped just behind him. When Lestrade raised his head, in the mirror he could see, as in any good horror movie, a stranger with a gun aimed at him. Oh, bugger. What a week to stop smoking.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" asked the man, and Lestrade could have smacked himself. Watson, John Watson, the killer that (if he believed Sherlock's creepy brother and his android assistant) shot Sherlock. There was a second in which he toyed with idea of saying 'no, you're mistaking me with my twin brother, I'm the _other_ G. Lestrade', and escaping to Ecuador or Guadalupe. But on the other hand – _the man killed a dozen of people_. And Lestrade was a cop, and a bloody good one too, all false modesty and Sherlock's comments aside.

"Yes. _Doctor_ Watson, I presume?" he asked casually, and turned to the left to wipe his hands, forcing to move his rigid muscles, tensed in the urge to run, fight, drop to the ground, _whatever_ , except just standing there with a paper towel in a hand. The man behind him either had a strange fit of hiccups and cough, or just giggled, what seemed a bit too disturbing for Lestrade to contemplate. Now, he had just to keep calm and somehow get out the gun he had...

"Good, you're just the man I was looking for. Now, I know you have the gun, so would you be so kind to turn around, raise your right hand, and very slowly hand me your gun with your left hand?" said Watson calmly. Dammit. Plan one, thought Lestrade, turning slowly to face the man, went to hell. Time to think of plan B... For example...

"Shouting will only get you killed, as I've got an escape route ready. The gun, please." Was there irritation, or nervousness in this voice? Lestrade felt a sudden twinge of anger, only fuelled by the normalcy of the man in front of him, his calm demeanour, his previous giggle... Who the hell the man thought he was? Standing there, in the middle of the Yard's restroom, with the gun, threatening Lestrade, hell, wanting to kill him. Waiting to kill him, more importantly. Why delay? Couldn't he just, for fuck's sake, shoot already and be done with it? Hell. Lestrade could KILL now for a cigarette. He took out his gun slowly, oh, so slowly, and, looking Watson straight in the eye, calmly and deliberately dropped the gun to the ground (even though he cringed inside at the hollow thud of metal hitting the tiles – he really hoped nothing got broken).

"Oops," said Lestrade defiantly, praying, begging, just come on, this one moment of stupidity, Watson, _pick it up, just bend down and..._

"Nice SIG. Now, those things done, we can talk" said Watson instead, his eyes not leaving Lestrade's, as if it was some crazy staring contest. Talk? Yeah, right, it is really nice and cosy to conduct a small talk when there are guns all over the place.

"Who said I want to talk with you?" asked Lestrade, trying hard to calm down, because unless he suddenly acquired the skill of breathing fire (and Sally _did_ suspect that), taking those shallow angry breaths could only lead to hyperventilating. "Because you can talk all you like, _Watson_ , but I, sure as hell, don't want to listen."

The man sighed, and broke the eye contact. Good.

"And if I told you that there were bombs in London that will go off in about the hour and I want you to stop it?"

"Yeah, and then I'll have to stop the Snow White and her seven bandit dwarfs from stealing the crown jewels. Sure." Lestrade almost rolled his eyes. Honestly, what the guy thought he was? Stupid? He will run around the London, and Moriarty will kill the Queen or something equally insane.

"Look, can you really afford not to believe me?" asked Watson, frustration evident now in the furrowing of his forehead. Lestrade thought about it for exactly four seconds.

"Yes, if I'm sure that you are just following your boyfriend's orders."

"Not anymore," muttered the doctor, as if to himself, and sighed deeply. "What should I do so that you could trust me? This really is fucking important, and with each and every minute the chances of stopping this madness are getting smaller."

"It's something my mother taught me once: never trust a man who creeps on you from behind in the toilet, points a gun at you, and threatens to kill you." said Lestrade firmly, still glaring at Watson, but something in his mind started cracking, seeing the frustration, nervousness (was the man's hand shaking?), aggravation and... something. Desperation. Yes, the whole stance of Watson screamed of it... Besides, he had let Molly free, didn't he? Screw this, thought Lestrade, serial killers have their quirks.

The point was, Watson didn't seem to be a ruthless, cold – blooded killer. It was not his appearance – the most brutal killer Lestrade encountered was a cute, pretty, twenty – year old girl who dressed in Hello Kitty t-shirts and he lost faith in 'nice' appearance long ago – but something about him... Lestrade saw a few murderers in his life (a bi of understatement, that) and this man just didn't fit in.

Watson lowered the gun, and, after several seconds of staring at it in complete silence (Lestrade forgot to breathe then, because _what the..._ ), offered it to stunned DI, grip first.

"What ..."

"Look, Lestrade, we started this wrong. Take the gun, arrest me, but for God's sake: Just. Listen. To. Me." the man was pleading now, even if somewhat angrily, his hand still extended, still holding the gun and Lestrade really must have been stupid not to take it, but... It was just not right. The gun felt too heavy in DI's hand, maybe because of the additional weight of Watson's gaze. Lestrade looked him in the eye again.

Dangerous man, yes. But _everything_ in Lestrade's guts told him that he could trust him, and wasn't it a kick in his own teeth, that he, despite reason, logic and himself, _wanted_ to trust John Watson?

"Tell me all you know, Watson."

\----------------------------

Next half an hour was a constant blur of faces, rooms, questions, answers, the nagging _you'll get all of those who helped you arrested_ and _they are dead already, good job_ and _was it really worth it_ , ever present in his aching head. At one point someone forced a hot paper cup full of coffee in his hand (not really shaking, were they? Just a temporary tremor caused by his shoulder wound), he might have even thanked but it was all lost over the commotion, shrilly ringing phones, the shouts and that buzzing in his ears. It didn't even properly register, as everything seemed dulled, distant, so surreal that he wanted to laugh and scream at the same time. The sandwich also sounded nice. Or curling into a ball and dying in peace.

The testament of how much everything was jumbled inside his brain was the fact, that it took him a full three minutes to realise that for the first time in the Yard he was deprived of DI Lestrade's calming presence at his side, and the only person in the office was a somewhat familiar man in ridiculously perfect looking suit, with even more ridiculous umbrella in his left hand. Oh, right, the overprotective big brother. My... something Holmes. John could feel the 'sandwich' and 'curling into a ball' stages swooshing past him at the speed of light.

"Looking from your point of view, coming here was a madness, Doctor Watson," said the older Holmes with a small smile that was meant to go with 'wasn't that nuclear explosion over your home-city nice?' or 'Your liver is in rather poor condition, good thing you won't be using it any longer'. "If I may ask, what do you think will happen to you now?"

"Good morning to you too" said John defiantly, honestly, he might be a former killer and an ex-vice-president of a crime syndicate, but it wasn't a reason to forget the good manners. "And frankly – I really don't care. I don't care what happens to me, you and the fucking rest of the world. So could you kindly piss off?"

"Ah, yes, _you don't care_. One could think that from all this 'not caring' you would just escape to the continent or go to the bar and get yourself intoxicated. The Police Station is hardly a place for 'not caring', just as not killing those you were supposed to kill is a rather poor display of disinterest," said Holmes, toying with his umbrella, still smiling irritatingly. John was really, _really_ , too tired for this and had way too little caffeine in his organism.

"Your point being?" he asked finally, and Holmes chuckled slightly, as if it he just told some fantastic joke, which would be nice if John didn't suspect HE was this joke himself.

"Dear Doctor Watson. I really think that the problem here is that you care just a bit too much, don't you think?" and before John had time to answer with some witty remark that he would certainly come up with (... eventually, and no, it wouldn't be a 'yo momma' one), Holmes continued, pointing the umbrella straight at John's chest as if it was the best argument itself. "To the matters at hand. How much would you want for dealing with some rather undesirable people? Apart from a relative freedom, of course."

 _Of course_ , resounded in his brain. God, if he wasn't so _tired_...

"I quit - I don't 'deal with undesirable people' anymore. Even if... Especially if it grants me 'a relative freedom' " John was quite proud he managed to say the words with distaste rather than pure rage. Honestly, what was the game here? "And I never did it for money, but for..." _yeah, John, what for?_ "Just leave me alone, Holmes. "

"Very well. It has been nice meeting you in person, Doctor" said the man after winning a short staring contest, finally lowering the umbrella and leaving in the dignified stride. But of course without goodbye, because why would he bother? Almost immediately after Holmes left, into the room sneaked Lestrade, looking as guilty as if he was the one with numerous kills on his record.

"Tell me, Watson, would you recognise Moriarty and his men if they wanted to sneak in Sherlock's room in disguise?"

"Probably" answered John hesitantly, trying to get the hidden meaning and some even more incriminating implications of the question. Lestrade smiled nervously, and held out something strangely familiar, but surely...

"Good. Take your gun, you're going with me to the hospital."

John started wondering if it was his coffee that was drugged, or Lestrade's. "What...?"

"You said Moriarty is planning a surprise for Sherlock, and that it will be most probably delivered in person. With all the commotion at the hospital caused by the bombs and evacuations it will be easy for him to sneak in, right? You did, after all. We need someone there to keep an eye on things, who knows best the breaches in security and Moriarty's twisted mind... and, God help me, but I trust you, Watson. So take the fucking gun, come with me and try not to look conspicuous, because if chief inspector hears about this..."

\-----------------------

Sally was going to murder Holmes. She was going to grab him by this thick skull of his and smash it into the wall, so that his psychopathic brain would pour out all over the floor, and then, finally, she would be able to do something constructive rather than sit in his room persuading him to stay in the bed. Somewhere outside the door, just outside this spacious private room, the victims of premature explosions which started during evacuation were wheeled into the operation rooms. There must have been thousands of things for her to help, to catch those suckers who did it... But no, she was stuck here babysitting the freak.

"... I am perfectly capable of maintaining in a vertical position, thank you doctor, now I have bigger problems than laying around swallowing your illegally acquired pills..."

"For God's sake, Mr. Holmes, you'll pull your stitches at best, the damage could be really severe and..."

"Just listen to the man, Holmes, we'll stop Moriarty for now so you and your... _friend_ can _play_ with him some more, just..."

There were footsteps outside and into the room marched Lestrade – and Sally could've kissed him. Or slapped for coming so late. He even started placating Sherlock, who managed to swing his legs down the edge of bed, despite his doctor's best attempts of physically restraining him, but both his protests and freak's 'logic' were overridden by confident voice of the short, stocky man in doctor's coat... She had seen him before, hadn't she?

"If you move an inch from this bed, if you so much as wriggle, I'll shoot you" said John Watson, calmly, while folding his arms and leaning on the wall. Sherlock looked as if someone dropped a sledgehammer on him, several times and from the considerable high, what had really little to do with a fact that he almost managed to kill himself by sitting up. Ah, well, Sally didn't feel particularly better herself after seeing the public enemy #2, and she had only a slightly broken heart and a messy break – up earlier.

"What the... Inspector?" she squeaked, torn between the urge to strangle a smiling Lestrade, and reach for her gun, at same time Holmes manager to croak (strange, he had no problems talking earlier... was it panic attack incoming? Sally certainly hoped not):

"John. So... he didn't." Yup, this made as much sense as anything Holmes ever said, but it seemed that Watson shared his craziness, and seemed to know what was it all about. Habit, too many crazy psychopaths in his live. He just took a deep breath and smiled softly, before responding with a rather unconvincing shrug, that it would be too much excitement for a one day, even for someone like Jim. Jim. God. She needed coffee and chocolate icecream, more of it with each minute of the silent, but _meaningful_ and intense looking into each others' eyes on Watson and Holmes's part (and she must really be sick to be reminded of some crappy romantic films by those two staring; _no more of this crap, Sally_ ). This was a great moment for Lestrade to explain that he was behind this whole insane, crazy, mental, freaky idea, and that Watson would be the one to help them to catch Moriarty. Well, there _was_ a saying that you should sent a thief to catch a thief... but not by helping him to break into your house, dammit. Somewhere in the background (she was rather preoccupied with shouting at her boss, and she caught it with the corner of her eye... then it caught up with her) Watson was helping Holmes to lay down, muttering something, holding his hand and...

Gooosh. They'd look sooo cute, if the whole scene wasn't exactly as much disturbing as sweet – psychopath and his almost - killer, Danielle Steel would have a fit. On the other hand, if Lestrade and Holmes _both_ thought Watson is harmless, it wouldn't do any good to question it. Oh, okay, she would question Holmes even if he said the Earth went around the Sun, but Lestrade hadn't been wrong about Sebastian, was he?

Speaking of the devil; she could hear the cheerful 'Twisted Nerve' whistling on the corridor, and if there was one person in the world who could do something like this it was Sebastian fucking Moran. Yes, there he was, opening the door and strolling in as if he owned the place, smirk firmly placed on his face, the irritating tune still on his lips...

"Sebastian. Decided to grace us with your presence" Lestrade looked positively murderous, and she felt a pang of satisfaction and relief that she wasn't the only one who found man's lack of presence at Sherlock's side unbelievably dickish, what meant she wasn't overreacting. Sebastian, good mannered as he was, didn't even spare a glance at her, or even Lestrade's if we're at it, direction (and that little voice in her head started chanting _dick, dick, dick, what an unbelievable dick_ even louder), looking at Sherlock, and only Sherlock, with such a _hungry_ expression as if he wanted to fuck the man right here and now. She saw it before, directed at her, and God, how could she be so stupid then to think it had been 'sexy'?

"Sherlock, feeling better, I see?" said Sebastian finally, after ending the crazy song with a long, high note which sent shivers down Sally's spine. "Doc, you're out, please, we've got some serious business here."

To Sally's disgust, Sherlock's doctor, who busied himself with filling in the chart, almost squeaked and practically ran at the dark, husky tone of Moran's (she won't be on first – name basis with that sucker) voice, not even bothering to ask anyone else in the room if his presence was required. Seeing as Watson took care of no longer uncooperative Holmes it was really for the best, but c'mon, were on this planet guys with balls who were not by any chance complete dicks or her bosses?

"Sebastian. How _nice_ for you to drop by, did you bring me some notes for my unfinished cases?" asked Holmes as if it was nothing. As if the whole thing with being left, with Lestrade pulling Holmes out of the rubble just as Moran was telling (to himself, probably) some obscene (and impropriate) jokes about bombs and headshots, with Moran just _shrugging and leaving_ , for fuck's sake! Lestrade started saying something, but Watson cut him short.

"I don't know what this ' _business_ ' is about, Moran, but Sherlock needs his rest right now," (the last few words were accompanied by a huff from the consulting detective, but there were no snarky comments to be heard) "and if it's not a matter of life and death, I'd prefer if it waited till morning," he said firmly, folding his arms, and Sally wanted to smirk at how his confident stance threw Seba... Moran off the tracks. There was a short silence, in which Lestrade started moving toward the door, tugging her to come with him. Before, however, they managed to make two steps, Sebastian regained his composure and with one fluent, swift movement drew a gun from behind his belt.

"Watson. Unexpected but quite convenient, this visit of yours. Tell me..." Moran smiled widely, showing much too many teeth for Sally's comfort and for it to look as anything else but a half – crazed grimace. God, what a creep. The mind – blowing sex was certainly not worth it. "... how do you feel now, just before you murder those two fantastic policemen and commit suicide shortly after?"

Moran placed the gun to Lestrade's head.

 _What the fuck?_

"Surprise, Sherlock. "

\--------------------------

Hilarious, wasn't it? The look of total surprise on their stupid faces, making them look even more idiotic; the sharp breath drew by Lestrade, _not so wise now, are you, copper?_ , fury and confusion on this bitch's ugly mug, _WTF_ of Watson's half opened mouth, but Sherlock, his Sherlock... Interested, but uncomprehending. Good. Moran smiled even wider, this whole thing was just too much fun, the whole plan of his, he'll be like this fucking Alexander the Great or... someone, fuck it now, who burnt the ships on his enemy's land so that the army had to march forth. And now he also had his favourite gun in his itching hand, could it be better? He could almost feel grateful to Moriarty for returning it to the Baker Street with a hand – written note of 'Take me' attached.

"What _the hell_ are you doing Moran?" asked Lestrade, confused but, oh, so wonderfully angry, shooting glances at the very naughty doctor at Sherlock's side, who just drew the gun himself. Moran wanted to laugh, he was containing it for so long his lung could burst any minute now, but then Sherlock was speaking, his deep baritone slicing through the heavy air,

"Obviously, Lestrade, Sebastian wants to murder you, Sergeant Donovan and John, and then put the blame on the doctor. Safest option, the man is already considered a dangerous criminal." _John,John,John_ Sherlock called this sucker by his first name, how idiotic(wrong, wrong, wrong, WRONG) was that? "The only thing that needs clarifying is where I do come in, Sebastian. You cannot possibly expect me to let you murder my acquaintances and not to interfere."

"I can," said Sebastian, the anger suddenly bubbling over the silent laughter in his head, because Sherlock was a genius, he should know by now, see the beauty of the plan, it's simplicity. The fucking copper moved then, did he really think Sebastian wouldn't see those little moves, the shifting of man's eyes, all tell – tale signs of someone about to do something as fucking stupid as trying to get hold of the gun? He almost felt insulted. Honestly, did the fact that he was one of fucking youngest colonels in British Army, he pondered as he smashed the barrel into the left side of Lestrade's skull, (with enough force to sent man flying down to the floor and get him a rather nasty cut and concussion but not enough to actually kill the sucker), meant nothing to those sore losers? Lestrade gave a faint moan of pain, and Moran had to bite his lower lip to keep himself from shooting the man right there and then, because this was so pathetic and _perfect_ , that he could almost feel the fuckers' blood on the tip of his tongue, smell it... Hell. The adrenaline. This was what he missed while hanging out with the _good, nice, proper_ Sherlock Holmes, this was the reason he needed to make the man _better_.

He took two steps back, still aiming the gun at Lestrade's head, and when he felt his back lean on the smooth, reinforced with steel (it was a very private room indeed) door, he turned the key. Sally was shouting something, it sounded suspiciously like 'you fucking son of a whoring bitch' (Moran was suddenly slightly _grateful_ , however humiliating it might be, that Moriarty gave him ' _inject me into guard's necks'_ labelled syringes) if he'd care enough to listen, Lestrade was breathing hard, Watson managed to take advantage of the situation and point the gun at him (nice, very, very nice. Not disappointing), and Sherlock... Sherlock was staring, but instead of the understanding, inspired and genius look, he wore the unmistakable signs of... impossible. _Fury?_ Really? No, mistake, this must be some fucking mistake, he must understand...

"Put the gun down, Moran," hissed Watson somewhere, but he was not important, besides who would be scared of little doctor who took it up his ass like some whore, and Sherlock was still not...

"Yes, Sebastian. Put the gun down, and we will consider the options then. I cannot comprehend why..." oh, so he finally responded, but it was too much, this was not someone Moran knew, this was some fucking sick twist of fate, the real Sherlock wouldn't tell him to put the gun down, to let go of all those wonderful, _wonderful_ plans he had. The real Sherlock would understand that the cocaine high was fucking _nothing_ to the high of being the master of life and death... Oh. Sherlock would, of course, if it weren't for those little snivelling suckers, this goody good Mr. Humanity on the floor, the vicious circle. Sebastian _needed_ him to see, dammit.

"But don't you get it? You do, don't you, just let go of those ridiculous morality they want you to follow, as if you were one of… them, little mindless plankton. They are making you weak, HE" okay, maybe he really didn't need to kick Lestrade, but those idiots made it really hard for him to stay (sane?) calm "is making you weak. You don't need their mundane petty rules, Sherlock, think of what you could do! Evidence? Proofs? Sherlock, you know you can decide if the man is guilty or not, we could bring justice, just you and me. You don't need _emotions_..." wait. Did someone say something?

"Bullshit, all of it" that was Watson, shouting over both the Sebastian speech and the hollow thuds from the other side of the door. Ah, yes, they were trying to batter down the door, then. About fifteen minutes, then, to make Sherlock see and shoot those suckers. Plenty of time, then. If, of course, Watson would kindly shut up... Moran was rather keen on making people quiet, actually, pity that there was no time for those little games. "I know the person you describe, and he's a monster. MONSTER, Moriarty, and Sherlock can't ..."

The guy must be kidding.

"You hear that, Watson? Those thuds? It's the irony knocking here to laugh in your wrinkled face, fucker. And if you say any more of this self - righteous shit, I will laugh in your face and shoot Lestrade so that at least _he_ doesn't have to listen to your hypocritical whining. So kindly..."

"If you try to pull this trigger, Moran, I'll pull mine. And I never miss. "

"Coming from someone who managed to botch up the easy shot in the chest, that's rich..."

"I. Never. Miss. Put your gun down."

"If you pull that trigger, I'll pull mine and you'll have both me and Lestrade on your conscience... And don't you think you've killed enough already?"

Watson actually flinched at that, showing that, yes, indeed, you could dig a hole on the bottom of 'absolutely pathetic' well. Really, like some pansy... Ah, yeah, he was one. That could explain something, if Moran really cared about explanations. Sally was saying something again, women, always _yapping, how annoying,_ but he just tuned her out.

"Sherlock? We could be like gods, y'know?" he said instead of shooting her, the thuds, her yapping, the constant buzz in his head ( _what's the buzz, tell me what is happening_ on the loop in his bran, just because it could) making it impossible to think clearly, he just needed (screams?) Sherlock to say 'yes' to take those loose ends and finally make something out of the jumbled mess...

"Psychopathic tendencies, how could I miss that", muttered Sherlock, eyeing him warily. _What? Was he..._ "I'm not sorry, Sebastian, but I really don't _know_ , as you put it. Put the gun down and we'll..."

That wasn't the 'yes' he was hoping for. But it made everything clear. You win some, you lose some.

"Okay. Now I'll just have to kill you all. I would say it's nothing personal, like in the old movies, but it kind of is. So..."

Fuck. It was really not the moment to forget that Lestrade was conscious, and he could attack Sebastian's legs, and he staggered left, trying to keep his balance, shooting just to make Lestrade back off (worked, that one, but there were no grunts of pain so he must put some effort next time, really it was a disgrace) but suddenly a bullet passed centimetres from his face... _Stupid, Watson, I'm not a fucking American to be scared off with warning shots_ , he though as he tried to aim for that little bitch, fumbling with her gun, who was the only one with the balls to actually DO something here, when there was another shot, the gun got a sudden momentum (shit, his gun was shot! That should not be as funny as it was, and he should stop laughing now. Really.) and shot the door instead. Sherlock must've rolled off the bed, because as Moran threw himself at the doctor there was no familiar black mop in sight... at least he had listened to one of Moran's monologues about civilian safety during shootings.

He threw himself at Watson, and they crashed to the floor, Watson's gun sliding somewhere behind to the right, and he managed to get the right angle to shoot the sucker who took his SHERLOCK, _the pure, beautiful, perfect Sherlock,_ from him... But it would be too little for this little shit, too little for him to feel, he wanted to see the pathetic brain of the fucker spilled all over the tiles, taste it and he might have smashed the gun once or twice into man's skull, the buzzing was getting louder and louder and...

Oh. Fucking. Hell.

Sudden pain exploded in his stomach and chest, hot and burning his insides in the way nothing, nothing... Something tickled down his spine, he could feel the sensation of

Everything went black.

\------------------

After fifty minutes of intense staring at the most fascinating blank page he had ever seen in his life, Lestrade meditated to such a level of initiation, that his enlightened brain was able to conclude, that writing the report might go a bit faster if he actually would grab a pen. It took him another three minutes to remember that something to write could be in the desk drawer. Of course, he didn't even look in the general direction of the drawer, his eyes still fixed firmly on the virginal page.

What would he even write? Snipers, shootings, bombs, guns, almost forty dead, numerous wounded, one converted killer, one inverted assistant, Sherlock, Hooper, Moriarty, Watson, Sally, Moran, all jumbled, intermingling with each other... God, no wonder that his head felt as if would explode any minute now. It might also have something to do with a concussion he had; but he was not going to sit uselessly in any hospital while he might sit uselessly in his office, especially when Sally demanded to be allowed to go to work, _to help in catching the psychopath behind all of this, Inspector, I can't go home now._ There was so much desperation in her voice, as they both stood (he a bit unevenly, leaning on the wall for support, she – swaying slightly) and watched the medical staff wheel away Moran, shouting to each other some medical technobabble, she almost begged Lestrade to let her go to the Yard. He couldn't leave her now, could he? He knew that desperate determination a bit too well himself.

And as if he had too little to worry about, the door opened suddenly just to reveal Mycroft Holmes, his umbrella firmly attached to his hand. Anderson was convinced the man was either an alien and the umbrella was his symbiot, or a mutant with an umbrella – like limb. Lestrade had to admit that both theories explained quite a lot – for example complete lack of proper manners. Did the man ever heard about 'Good morning'? Or about not coming when Lestrade had a hell of a headache?

"Inspector Lestrade, how nice to meet you here," Mycroft was smiling this creepy smile of his, while peering on the blank page in front of the Inspector. "The report is going quite nicely, as I see."

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes" he settled on saying that, instead of stuffing the man's mouth with the paperwork on his desk - that would require moving, and his whole body was a bit too heavy for this. "What do I owe the pleasure?"

"I was just talking to the Chief Inspector, as we have exactly the same problems in the government. I only occupy the minor position, of course..." (Lestrade almost wished he was having a cup of coffee right now, so that he could choke properly) "... but I also have this recurring problem with important papers getting lost and found."

God. There was Holmes – talk incoming. As if Lestrade's headache was not painful enough, the man had to come and make it worse. Something of his discomfort must have shown, as Holmes's eyebrow raised elegantly, and the man continued in more business – like (and full of distaste, of course, as always when he tried to speak normal English) tone.

"I will go straight to the point, then. Chief Inspector is perfectly sure that his secretary lost the paper stating that John Watson was working for the police for the last two years. As you were the one to draw that one up, I believe that you should have a spare copy to share."

Lestrade had to process this for about two minutes, before getting into a laughter fit. Really, was the man _crazy_?

"Why would I do it?" he asked after a while, when he managed to regain his breath (the slow upward motion of Holmes's eyebrows had somewhat sobering effect). "Watson is a criminal after all and as much as I'll be doing anything in my power to get him as light sentence as I can..."

"You will do it for the same reason I took the matter into my own hands... and why you gave Doctor Watson the gun when you took him to the hospital" Holmes leaned forward, and Lestrade stilled. "Because some wrongs need to be righted."

\---------------------------

The smell was all wrong for it to be the bedroom or the living room. Unmistakable odour of antiseptics laid heavy on his tongue; infirmary, then. What Jim had come up with this ... _Oh shit_. All came crashing down on him, the pool, Sherlock, explosions, Moran, Jim, snipers, shots, everything at once. Shit, shit, shit, shit...

Shit. Yeah. Now, time to move on. He was in the hospital, probably because of the fractured skull... He tried to move. Nope. Something was definitively broken, because the pain should not be as unbearable after a simple fracture.

"You're awake. Good. Would you like some water?" said the deep baritone somewhere to his left, and the pure disbelief made opening eyes more than possible.

"Sherlock? What the hell are you doing out of the bed?" he croaked angrily, eying the consulting detective with as much irritation as he could muster at the time. God, the man was okay, really okay, alive and well, not dead. "I told you what I'll do to you if you move, didn't I?"

"Definitively some water, then" muttered Sherlock, trying to stand up, but with the pure power of Force John made his hand move and grab Sherlock's in tight grip. This was just... There was something important he needed to ask, now, this very moment, because... He was not thinking straight, was he? There was too much of pain filling his head, there was no place to keep all those little thoughts he had. Important. What could be important?

"You're okay, aren't you?" he finally said, clutching Sherlock's wrist as if it was his lifeline (and maybe it was? Maybe, oh, yes, it could be?), making sure they both were alive. Who knew with the afterlife, there could be tall, lanky, _beautiful_ consulting detectives in your personal hell, however unlikely it seemed.

"Yes, of course. If those idiots here weren't so keen on torturing patients with bedrest..." shrugged Sherlock, corners of his mouth tugging upwards, and John unwillingly mirrored the smile. "And the offer still stands, with slight alteration. I am in need of flatmate, so you could..."

Ah, yes, that was this something tugging on his mind.

"Sherlock, I am not looking for a flatmate, but for an in – mate... Oh, well, I guess those get assigned" he croaked, suddenly feeling more tired than ever. Sherlock raised his eyebrow in eerie, Spock – like way, proving that yes, there were human beings who possessed the skill.

"Curious. My brother is quite sure you were working for police the whole time, so the prison is rather not an option there. And as much as I love proving him wrong..."

"You can't do this, Sherlock. I can't do this. I..." he had been killing, murdering, _hurting_ people all this time, and he could not just walk away from it, now could he? He deserved the prison, hell, he deserved an execution, because he was as much of a monster as Jim...

"You're an idiot, John" sighed Sherlock, cutting into this train of thoughts, and rolling his eyes. "I'll just tell Mrs Hudson, our landlady and not a housekeeper, to empty the room upstairs, and you can wallow in self pity of a moral crisis _there_."

Before John could start explaining, putting those jumbled feelings into even more jumbled words, the shriek from the general direction of a door could be heard.

"Mr HOLMES! You shouldn't be out of bed again! Doctor Simmons will KILL me!" squeaked the little, pretty nurse, dropping in despair and desperation charts she was carrying, and running out of the room. Something shifted, then, as if that elephant in the room suddenly understood he was a figure of speech and disappeared in the fumes of absurd. And, as they both burst into laughter as if it was the funniest thing they ever seen, John could tell that yes, he would live in the 221b Baker Street.

This was just painfully _right_.

\-----------------

The sounds of _Nobody knows where my Johnny has gone_ dug painfully into Moran's brain as he tried to regain consciousness, bit by bit. _It is not a hospital_ , he thought rather stupidly, as he opened his eyes just to see Moriarty's face looming a few centimetre's from his; fuuuck, he really should headbutt the guy for his choice of music. Honestly, _It's my party_ , as if Jim was some teenage girl with pigtails? This called rather for _Another one bites the dust_ , if not _If you want blood_.

"Sebbie! How very nice to see your pretty eyes again!" yes, Moriarty definitely had something of a teenage gal in him. Besides... pretty? But seeing as Moran was the one on the bottom there (oh, no, this was NOT an innuendo, Moran didn't do such lousy innuendos), he just rolled his eyes. "Okay. Your _manly_ eyes. You seemed quite desperate for a good doctor, and knowing the medical staff from the prisons..."

"Pity, then, that you lost your doctor" smirked Moran, and Jim smiled even wider.

"So I'm in a dire, _dire_ , need of an assistant. Someone, you understand, who could help me kick the orphans and take candy from puppies. Do you know anyone good?"

"Best," said Moran smiling, truly, really smiling, because suddenly his life was on the right tracks again.

\------------------

The End.   
Or maybe the beginning...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hiding behind the desk] Please don't kill me? And, while you're at it, could you please comment?
> 
> I'm also thinking of the Epilogue / companion piece to this fic. Would anyone be interested?
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
